Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass

I've recently set up my old phonograph and have started spinning my grandmother's records. The crisp sound and faint crackle please me though I am not entirely sure why. My grandfather's paintings are hanging on the walls, looking very familiar in their details, but very different on my walls rather than his. I cooked my dinner tonight using a pot from my grandmother's kitchen and I sit here eating it listening to her music. Earlier I looked up a word in the muckle great dictionary that two generations of my family have used as a booster seat. The night seems warm and comfortable. It is odd that these things remind me so much of the loss of my grandparents, and also that these things can comfort me and make me feel somehow as if they are standing here at my side.