Virginia Ferguson

New York, NY

The image that's been playing over and over in my head for the past five days is me as a three year-old, running into the arms of my grandmother. This was taken on my grandfather's 8mm film camera, and represents the earliest moving picture of me. And in those few seconds of celluloid, there is pure happiness. Both from me and my grandmother. And that's really what our relationship was based on - love and joy at being around one another.

After my grandfather died, my grandmother moved to Palm Beach. She found relaxation and comfort in the sub-tropical air, and daily walks on the beach collecting seaglass. On one of our many trips down, we stood near the pool at night, with the warm (and constant) ocean breeze dancing around us. She pointed to a star hanging low in the sky and said that was her husband looking over her, making sure she was alright. And I believed her. She said it with such gravitas, and such compassion, that it was impossible not to.

My grandmother rarely laughed. This isn't to say she wasn't a happy person, but to actually make her laugh was a challenge. And even if you were to get a laugh out of her, it would be nothing more than a light chuckle. Blink and you'd miss it. A few weeks ago, I made a trip up to Connecticut to see her. Somehow, despite her confinement to a wheelchair, and the series of tubes that ran from her body, I was able to make her laugh. (Suggesting we tie her wheelchair to the bumper of the car and drag her around the parking lot seemed, oddly, to do the trick). In that moment, we shared, again, that love and joy once more.

Tonight, if you find yourself beneath a cloudless sky, look west and close to the horizon. You might see two stars burning brighter than you'd ever seen before.