“What are you writing about? Are you writing a story?”
A server in a Heathrow airport restaurant, a woman with sad eyes, wonders about my notebook.
“I’m just writing about life,” I say, feeling suddenly self-conscious but also, of course, touched that someone is asking.
“I used to write a lot,” she says, “I lost my grandmother when I was eleven, and she was my mother, she raised me, and some things I couldn’t express to anyone, but I could in writing.”
“You should keep writing!” I say.
“YOU should keep writing!” she says.