• “Symphony, child, come here.” My grandfather’s warm voice filled the air as he beckoned me to his lap. I quickly fumbled, for I was only of the young age of four and so much smaller than he, into his lap. Cradling me against his weathered chest, my grandfather spoke softly to me. He spun me a tale from long ago, back when he and grandmother still walked the vast fields of Ireland. He would lay down an old quilt, in a field far from the towns, for her to rest upon as he would woe her with melodies sung by his guitar. Tales would be spun and dreams were made as his hands danced upon the golden strands. The world sang all around them, creating their tale, as his guitar continued its wonderful wail. Sparkling streams adorned his rosy cheeks as he continued his tale, smiling down at me. Oh how he missed those grand days, back when he could gaze out his window and see the soft Irish grass sway. Back when his children ran through the fields with sunny smiles, and Grandmother’s spirited laugh rang across their land.