Grandmother

My grandmother.

My gran.

She is dead now but she is alive in the slightest of moments.

I see them floating in the air they spin with the wind. They are the whitest feathers on the most crisp of clear days. That is my Gran now. Each floating feather reminds me of the beauty of her person and the smell of the baked bread as we went to her house on the motorway.


I smile.