Good Advice

After two months of perpetual failure in coaxing me out of self-imposed solitude, Grandfather gives up.

Late in the evening, Grandmother comes to my room and sits on my bed, scrutinising me.

Then she pats my head like a dog’s. “You know a bit about my past. So, trust me when I tell you this: if the future you imagined for yourself falls apart, it becomes a part of your history. Just pack up all those potential tomorrows into a little box and put them away. Build yourself anew. New you, new future, new tomorrows.”

New me… It’s an idea.