The other day I stood in front of my kitchen window, looking down upon the street that runs in front of my apartment. Boyfriend and the cats were napping in the other room, and my world was quiet but for the humming of the ceiling fan and the occasional whoosh of the cars on the street below. It was a quiet, late summer Sunday afternoon, with few people in sight, as I stood, eating pickled cucumbers straight from the jar, and missing my great-grandmother deeply.