My Grandmother read everything. The paper, romance novels, the encyclopedia. She loved crosswords. My fondest memories are of curling up against her on a cold winter morning, watching her work out cryptic crosswords. I can hear the hum of the gas heater in the corner, feel the soft dressing gown she wore against my cheek. I can even smell the liquid paper and hear her curse when she got something wrong.
Emjay is a work in progress, made up of stardust and melancholy.