By Robin Wright
Granddaughter and I walk six blocks, perusing sweaters and shoes, paintings someone’s brush stroked on Memory Lane. She plunks down a dollar for a purse, gets headbands thrown in from a man who praises her politeness. At our last stop, we ask questions of a lady who looks away, checks under a chair, wanders around, yells at a man across the street. Do you have my cigar box? He jogs to her. No. She sobs. Someone stole my money. The man wraps an arm around her. Granddaughter and I again search her wares, determined to buy from this woman.
“I write because I can’t imagine not writing.” – the writer