My grandmother used to look for four-leafed-clover all her life. Wherever she went, she would eventually bend down to pick one. The funeral was an awkward affair, full of pent-up feelings. My youngest sister looked on with a particularly indifferent expression. Some time during the service I saw her standing right next to the coffin, almost leaning on it. She left early, long before the coffin went into the ground. Only then, did my eyes fall on a tiny bouquet of four-leafed-clovers dangling from one of the coffin locks. There must have been dozens of them.  I teared up and, one after another, the mourners noticed the clover and gave way to their feelings of loss.

I don't know how many hours my sister had spent on her knees on dog-pooed, urban  grass patches looking for them.