September without the muckle deed yins

I always think of my grandmother at this time of year. Grasshoppers bound across sandy meadows dotted with orange hawkweed. It's peaceful. It smells good. There's nothing in the world to worry about. I can feel her hand holding mine, feel the sun warm on my chubby knees, hear her say "That's Indian paintbrush." Except . . . it wasn't.