You are old and grey, sitting on a leather couch by the fireplace, sipping on a steaming cup of Barry’s tea, when a little child crawls around the corner of the armrest.
“Grandma, can you tell me a story?”
You pick him up and sit him down on your lap while sifting through your memories, fragments triggered with every wisp and crackle of the flames. There was that time you and your friends went on a West Coast road trip. There were those annual family ski trips in Colorado (oh, how you tumbled down the slopes!). Then, you look down at your cup of Barry’s and smile.
“Well, once, a long time ago, way before you were born, I worked as a barista in Dublin.”
“Wow!” he exclaims. “What’s a Dublin?”
