Almost late for her Feldenkrais lesson because I felt a nudging, a need to pull over and get a book from a Little Free Library — on the way.

Can’t this wait, my mother said.

I wasn’t even reaching for that book — it just kinda tumbled out and fell onto my feet — upside down and open.

There was a note inside.

I will not let you forget me. 

It was handwritten on a plain piece of paper— nearly ripped in half and really crumpled— like it was meant for the trash can but somehow didn’t get to that trash can — because it found its way to me — instead.

A message from the universe, my mother said — sitting in the car.  Teasing me.

You’ve indeed found me again my love,  I whispered then wrote — on that really crumpled — nearly ripped in half — plain piece of paper — that was now tucked back inside that book– now sitting, waiting on the shelf.  I was giddy about what could happen next.

Too much grinning and thinking — I was a zoo animal — a hyena, probably —  until a little old lady  picked up that book — and put it in her purse.