Five Years a Writer

Memories can live anywhere. Some we keep happily in the place that best keeps them alive, while others lurk in the shadows, niggling away at us, whether we want them to or not. One that niggles at me is the heartless way in which, many years ago, I reacted to a young man’s cry for help in a shopping mall entrance way. I was busy on my round of errands and brushed off his plea, not wanting to connect with someone who, in retrospect, I realize  was in emotional distress of some kind and who, likely, just needed a friendly person to offer a helping hand. But I pulled my metaphorical armour tightly around me and kept walking. I re-live the feeling of my own ignorance every time I enter that same mall these days. If only I could go back to re-do that moment… A happier memory lies in wait for me whenever I open my writing-desk drawer. That is where I keep a few of the mementos I have from my paternal grandmother: a silver case with her initials on it — a case that likely held carefully r...