She goes to the barn to milk the cows and closes the barn door behind her while I wait in the house. I am never allowed to go with her. Half an hour later, she returns with a pail full of warm milk and gives me some to drink. Then she pours the rest into a cup and blows it with her breath until it is stone cold. "That's the way your grandfather likes it," she says. Grandma rests the cup on the table, sits down and waits. In the evening, the milk is black.

The day before Grandma stops milking, I sneak into the barn. It is dusk and the wind blows strongly outside. Inside the barn, I see something beside the cows. Something that milks and cries, milks and cries. Before I can do anything, the barn door bursts open. Cold air flows in, and a shadow goes out. Or perhaps it is a scent, a memory.

Grandma rushes into the barn and starts milking as if it is the last thing she will ever do. Then she rushes out with the pail half full of milk. She seems to be carrying the moon. She pours the milk onto the ground, which flows forming a winding path. "Don't worry," Grandma gasps, "your grandfather will find the way." And I don't know if she is referring to the way back or the way forward. 

The next day, Grandma sits in front of the cup full of milk. The milk remains white. She sits, waits and then stops. She drinks the milk and cries black tears.