I used to write a lot about my grandmother but in recent years I've done so less and less. After a while, grief's ebb and flow gets slower, and gains more perspective. That person you lost becomes less about missing them and more about subtly upholding the mutual values and things you shared, so much so that there might be days where you don't even notice it; that person simply lives on through you. Anyhow, I started writing a fiction piece based on her first memory. Shall I finish it? 'There were a dozen moons that night. She counted them from the wheelbarrow as George raced them around the perimeter of the barley fields, a stray blade tucked between his teeth in concentration, his hands clutching both handles. Laughing in delight, counting one, two, three, four, each moon greeted her with a different expression: the peekaboo moon slotted between the trees; the heavy gawping orb weighted on the horizon; the undulating glimmer; all the milk moon faces of May.'
