It's the middle of december, and I am walking from one antique shop to the other, searching for a present, and finding the past in an old lady's presence, in the particular way she touches a precious glass and remembers. She reminds me of days I have not ever lived, and days I spent with my grandfather, the days we were, and that now he is gone, and how the mere here and now passes quicker than it takes to drop and break a glass which can be replaced even twenty, thirty years later.