Ancient trees leaned in on both sides and cast shadows that dappled his way. He was very ambitious. His father was a farmer, but he wanted to be a writer. He wanted to see everything and try everything—and he was in a hurry to get started. (That’s how it starts. This is a story that’s been in my family for a long time. It gets told and retold in times of transition—graduations and weddings, births and deaths. It’s not a story you tell around a table; it’s a story you tell quietly, one-on-one, maybe after everyone else has gone to sleep.) So, the young writer came to a short stone bridge that crossed a narrow river. There was an old woman sitting like a heap of gray rags at the base of the bridge. “A coin for an old woman?” she asked as he passed. He said nothing and kept walking. “Just a kind word, then?” she called. Again, he said nothing, and picked up his pace. “STOP!” she said—her voice very different. He turned. The old woman was standing, pointing at him with a long, pale finger.
