Slice of someone else's life

Turns out it's a lot easier to stop writing than to start. That's one reason I'm glad I met this woman at the bus stop today.  Actually, she was standing 50 or so feet away from the bus stop when I politely squeezed past her on the sidewalk at 5 p.m. She walked along with me, commenting how she'd just realized she'd misplaced herself. We made small talk, awaiting the bus: weather, of course. In a show of boldness, she asked what I did. When she learned I was an English teacher, she asked if I wrote. "Informally, amateurly," I stuttered, "to model for my students." "Not to get published?" she asked. I shook my head. "For my own reflection, really." She said she loved to sing and write songs; in fact, she was headed to a music rehearsal. She admitted that she would never let her dreams die. She'd dreamed for a long time of a life in rock and roll. She'd lived itinerantly.  Before singing tonight, she needed to attend an AA meeting. Her laughter rang like wind chimes. Turns out I never know what might re-start my writing.