Sand through my fingers. Memories of my experiences on the Golden Dove and the faces of those whom I set out from London on such a grand adventure are...obscured by thick fog these days. Even my life before that, growing up in France, once so indelibly stamped in my mind, has faded. I can recall little details, much like dredging up tales from a story book read as a child, one that I remember being fond of, but the tale itself had dimmed to a twilight memory. Daily, recollections of another time. I got in my car and punched the address into my phone and started driving. The box sat in the passenger seat and I eyed it nervously. It was too short for a crop or a switch, but there were plenty other things, both pleasing and not, that could fit in it. The drive was not a long one but I did not recognize the house that I pulled up in front of. I got out and with the package in hand walked nervously up to the front door and rang the bell. The door opened revealing Tina a woman that worked. More

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