Last week Friday during my day off work and day on running errands, I found myself in a familiar haunt: my old neighborhood bookstore. It’s one of my happy places, where I can spend hours pouring over shelves of disjointed genres, entertaining and tickling different parts of my thoughts/memories/imagination that have been neglected.

Drifting up and down the aisles pressed against the wall of the store allocated for books on spirituality and religion, I passed a young man engrossed in a book. Slouched down in his temporary sanctuary of a chair that struggles not to be too inviting.

I made mental notes about him, many of which have long since been crumpled up and thrown away. There’s still a faint scribble about his body language blasting an all points bulletin that he was both smart enough to chill there and probably too cool to be there.

He seemed to be positioning the book he was reading in such a way that no one would see.

It was “Making it on Broadway”, and wonder if he’ll try.

I hope he does, but with those mental notes now in a landfill or on a barge off the Jersey shore or the trash vortex, I don’t suppose I’ll ever know.

Maybe it was the banana pancakes I made The Mc this weekend (I rarely cook) and the one I made him in the shape of a heart (inspired by mydailystruggle)

Maybe it was the visit to the doctor today, confirming the sensation I’ve had in the back of my throat for the last few weeks like I’ve been grooming Grayson is actually a condition he called a “furry tongue”…which will, incidentally; not kill me.

Maybe it was that the doctor was from Anchorage, and knew people I knew twenty years ago. That he could relate to my love-hate relationship with “home” in a way no stranger I’ve talked to in twenty years could, and had his own stories of fearing the mental DNA we inherit. Maybe it was connecting to someone. Maybe it was the ghost of home.

Maybe it was coming home from the doc and working from a perch on the porch in the teaser spring temperatures with the sun landing squarely on my sun damaged by pale, pale skin and my solar powered spirit.

Maybe it was the diorama I just made The Mc of our cabin out of a box my sister had given me, stacked to the gills with books, naughty cookies and love.

Maybe it’s getting together with Karen and Cindy and ETK again tomorrow for another evening of emotional and creative liberation.

Maybe it’s the payments I sent my credit card today.

Maybe it’s springing forward and the “extra” hour at the end of the day and the fact that I still have a bit of energy left at 4 o’clock (the new 5 o’clock, donchaknow)

Maybe it was the conversation with A yesterday about spirituality and enlightenment and peace.

Maybe it’s knowing Danielle is doing better and maybe eating a big pile of lasagna I made her with love.

Maybe it was a Saturday night in the kitchen with Gwen - cooking and sipping and gabbing and laughing and sharing the things we struggle with to make them less scary.

Maybe it’s the pictures I just took of Grayson laying on his back on the kitchen floor with his legs sprawled.

Maybe it’s the laundry I just started that will actually be done before I go to bed - and with time to hang it, to boot.

Whatever it is, was, and will be - I’m happy it happened, is, was…and I hope it doesn’t leave me again.

Not yet.