I have let go of my old life. You know the one. The life where I got up earlier than God, rushed,rushed,rushed. Worked all day, and part of the night. Jetted to somewhere different, worked in a different location, a different city. Encountered harshness no matter where I was. There is little chivalry in an airport. Each man or woman fighting for their own space. Seldom reaching out a hand to help. And if you reach out to help, they view you as a suspicious character. Same song, second verse. Rinse and repeat.
The cool dark interior of the antique shop is a welcome respite from the summer sun. As the door closes behind me an insistent voice whispers inside my head, ‘Come to me, I want to tell you a story.’ I turn around, expecting someone behind me. No one. I dismiss it as my overactive imagination.