Three years. I gazed upon my grandmum with massive, silver-blue eyes, filled with the innocence of a child. I was amazed as she created life upon the canvas.

Five years. Gently grasping my grandmum’s brushes, I created my first likeness of her light brush strokes.

Nine years. I stood there, watching her garden through the stained window. As she looks up at me, I take my cue from her wise, adventurous eyes. Taking a deep breath, I let out the first chords of song.

Eleven years. My grandmum watches in her swivel chair, as I steady my shaking, nervous hands. A lightly dusted horse hair bow, pulled across silver wildgrass strings, making a beautiful sound friendly to the ears. I smile proudly as she praises me, clapping her dry, calloused hands, with a weak, aging smile pulled across her face.

Thirteen years. Dying gardens, and stored away art. No longer in choir, and moving further from orchestra. the ink stained boxes, filled with all her memories, washed away by the tears of our grief.