My mother presents me with a box of childhood memorabilia she’s found while preparing for a move. In it are my report cards from grade school through high school. Amused, I read them all. I’m teary-eyed, drawn to one that suggests that I’m a talented writer and expresses hope that I do something with my skill. I’ve been fighting it for years but isn’t it remarkable how we ultimately arrive at who we really are?
Another Ah Ha
