And that was as far as he got before i heard it. The thumping of footsteps, running up the lawn toward me: It seemed like I could hear it through the grass, like leaning your ear to a railroad track and feeling the train coming, miles away. As the noise got closer I could hear ragged breaths, and then a voice. It was my mother.

And the rest is history,' I said. Nah.' He shook his head. 'The rest is now.

Let's just start and see what happens.

Of course it hurts", she grumbled, tipping my head further back. "Life sucks. Get over it

I trailed off and he didn't push me to finish. I was finding that I liked that.

I think whenever a writer is really enjoying themselves and liking what they are doing, that shows on the page.

So many versions of just one memory, and yet none of them were right or wrong. Instead, they were all pieces. Only when fitted together, edge to edge, could they even begin to tell the whole story.