The best times I spent in the forest meadows were with my grandmother. She was alone a lot, too. When we did have the chance to be together, we loved the same things—finding

tiny violets under the grass, for example. A warm wind on our faces, the sun warming our

hair. We would hold hands and enjoy being together. We talked about the people we knew

and how to get along with them. Every time I met her, she had a new piece of praise for me. And because I had the encouragement and love of my grandmother, even for the short

times that I was with her, I was able to believe in myself, and make something of my writing.

What makes this passage "reflective writing"?