By Liz Goodchild
I still look for her, even after all these years. I scour crowds, searching for her face, hoping to catch a glimpse of her thick-rimmed glasses, the same glasses that helped to identify her when she was removed from the railway tracks. And yet I know that she is gone. That I will never see her again.
She was tall. Much taller than me. She carried herself with such dignity and determination and yet depression drenched her bones with every step she took. I only knew her as a child and teenager, and yet I am an adult now. How has it been fifteen years since I last saw her? Continue Reading…