On those streets during the walk back home, it can get so cold that you can’t help but cross yourself every third or fourth step. Down pathways and between houses you will never ever step foot in, the damp gets into your bones so much so that you swear this is what it must feel like to die. An exaggeration of course, but the weather in England is enough to make anyone feel down at even the best of times. Breathing into my hands in an attempt to warm myself up, I remember the lines on your palms and how you would study them for hours on end trying to decipher your future. I never had much use for such mumbo-jumbo, but in your heart, you believed that there was some kind of magic at play, and so I kept my mouth shut and allowed you to lose yourself in your thoughts. To remember how intently you gazed at your flesh. To recall the frown you wore while studying your book on palmistry trying to figure out what it all meant. As pointless as it sometimes seems, I never forget these memories of you, for I keep you in my heart and follow your lead whenever in search of something to soften this hardened shell of mine. Passing the relics of all those yesterdays that remind me of you no matter how hard I try to deny it, the vision of your smile does indeed warm me despite the gusts of wind that scratch my face and pick away at my squinting eyes. On the news, they said that Ian Brady had died after spending over fifty years in prison. Of the five children he buried on Saddleworth Moor, one is still up there waiting to be discovered after all this time. Little Keith Bennett is his name. Brady never revealed just where about’s he buried him, and now he takes the secret with him to the next life. Did I ever tell you about Brady? I somehow can’t recall. He was a bad man that’s for sure, but a soul that has fascinated me since my grandad spoke of him in my younger years in such knowledgeable terms as if the two of them had once been drinking buddies.