Saturday, July 19, 2014

A Stranger?

I am home.  I am home.  And I daresay that I am mighty nostalgic about it all.  Everywhere I look, from the grate in a sidewalk where my grandmother warned me never to walk to a storefront glittered with trophies where I took baton lessons, I am filled with the wonder of memories.  They come at me from all sides. 

I am sitting in a cafe-writing.  Tucked in a stuffed chair, I face the sidewalk.  A mother and her daughter, arms loaded with books walk passed, their step light despite their weighty load.  They just came from the same library where I sat on the floor and opened book after book and smelled that library smell.  Where all whispers echo within the chambers of the MacArthur Library.

Strangers file by.  They are all strangers.  I recognize no one.  This city holds my memories among strangers.  Surely a comfort, but am I now the stranger?

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