The lake is black after midnight, and the only sound is the water lapping against the dock.
I sit on the porch steps, a cold cup of coffee in my hand, and watch the house across the street.
Every night, just after the clock hits twelve, he comes out. He waves. I wave back.
I never learned his name. In my head, I call him 'The Man Who Waved Back.'
Tonight, my granddaughter sat beside me. She pointed at him and asked, 'Why do you wave to a stranger?'
I didn't have an answer. I just shrugged and said, 'It's what we do.'
Later, I found a seed packet in the garage, past its plant-by date. I still put it in the ground last spring.
Nothing came up. But the earth was turned, and that felt like enough.
Maybe that's what the wave is. A small turning. Even if nothing comes of it, we still show up.