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.