Once the conference wrapped up, I headed back to the old Sinclair family estate in the Brampton region.
This old early-twentieth-century European-style villa that my grandmother had left me sat right on the banks of a river, and in its courtyard grew a ginkgo tree she had planted with her own two hands when she was a girl.
At that moment, brilliant golden ginkgo leaves carpeted the entire courtyard.
Bathed in the glow of the setting sun, they sparkled like a blanket of scattered crushed gold.
I sank into the wicker chair under the tree, curling my hands around my grandmother's worn old photo album.
In the grainy black-and-white photos, my young grandmother wore a traditional dress she had designed herself, smiling with a bold, unshakable confidence.
A soft, warm voice drifted over fr
