Reblogged from Stepping Stones:

The first hints of sunrise were just appearing this morning, accompanied by the squabbling of gulls who were busy dive-bombing an unfortunate owl who had missed whatever cue serves to send owls back to the roost before the gulls wake, and, since sleep had eluded me entirely, I decided to crawl out of bed. In the process I realised, completely randomly, that I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember what colour my grandmother’s eyes were.

It’s hardly surprising, as she died when I was eleven. It’s odd really, I’m not even sure I ever “knew”; so to say that I have forgotten is strange enough, to begin with. No matter how hard I wracked my brain, there was no way I could place a colour, despite the keen memory of the brightness in those eyes, the well defined, pure white mop of curly hair, and the ever present floral patterned pinafores.

Continue reading at Stepping Stones