Perhaps no other season wears a dichotomy on its sleeve as winter does. The stark, rough winter is no match to the warmth of the people sitting closely by the hearth or a fireplace. In this fireplace, sitting by the fire, stories are passed from generation to generation. Grandmothers share stories of pains and joys to their grandchildren. An inheritance of stories. For me, sitting by a fireplace brings back memories from the past. The memories of December 6, 1992, come alive. This winter, the memories are more vivid, perhaps more hurtful.