I walk into one of the used bookstores in my neighborhood knowing the feeling I’ll have on the other side of the door. A good one. Peaceful. Every time I enter this place is like entering a friend’s living room. Comfortable and welcoming. Today is no different. A sunny day, all inflamed with that somewhat misleading yet overwhelming smell of early spring.
I got up early today all pumped for a morning ride. Chilly mornings and bike rides go well together given that the appropriate layers are put on. Not in numbers but texture-wise. So I did. Double gloves included, having learned my lesson from a previous ride. There were quite a few commuting cars on the road but I didn’t mind them. Their zooming past is part of that morning music that I listen to as soon as I hop on my bike.
It was a Saturday morning in early spring. One of those spring mornings when I was happy to finally see patches of blue behind the clouds that seemed sewn onto the sky for weeks and taking a walk with my son, who was two at the time, seemed the perfect way to honour my joy. Walking around the neighborhood meant that he would go after the tiniest insect and observe it for several long minutes and then he would watch a droplet a water balancing on the tip of a twig, round and plump. Would another one take its place if it fell? Most likely. Dripping is a fascinating phenomenon.