Hope Street

Hope Street. Where grandfather met grandmother. Where mother met father. Where sister met brother-in-law. Where everyone who was anyone to her had met the one who became someone to them. There was magic in the cobblestones. Or maybe in the sunshine reflected in the windows. But there was magic: it was her heritage.

She had three weeks in the Old Country with nothing but to sit in the shade of the arches of Hope Street. And sit she did, for three weeks. And then another. And then she let the companion pass flutter to the ground, and left.