I was reading this article about the sentimentality of old things on Woogsworld a little while ago, and I thought of my maternal grandmother’s green depression glass vase that sits in a cabinet here in my loungeroom. It has a little splash on orange paint on the lip, which to me is like a beckoning story. This grandmother, Frances, died at 36. Her wedding photo sits on my mantelpiece, and my daughter bears her name as a part of her own. For some reason, though my mum didn’t really talk a lot about her, the spirit of this grandmother has always resonated strongly with me. When I finally really began to write, it was a story that began with Frances and ended with me.…