The sign read “Baby Missing.” It hung in the back, over the garage sale notice and the dog walking service with three numbers left, at the Starbuck’s on Sheridan. His back to me, he read the review of “Super 8” from his ipad. “Baby Missing.” It was written in black sharpie – perhaps the only thing permanent. “Baby Missing…three years old… blonde curly hair…” He finished the movie review and asked, “Should we go?” “There’s a baby missing,” I said. Even the words felt uncomfortable. “A baby missing?” He looked at me, “How could a baby be missing?” The two men sitting on the circular table in front of us, repeated the same thing, ”How could a baby be missing?”  My heart sank. She was out there. Was she scared or cold or crying? A baby was missing and I was drinking a non-fat, extra hot, vanilla latte. A baby was missing and we asked a few questions… this barista… this customer… no one knew anything… and the collective roar of our worry soon quieted to heads shaking in disbelief.  And softly, politely we all slipped back into our previous conversations.  A baby was missing, and I sipped my coffee, losing the thought around page 365 of my newest read.  I recycled the cup and plastic lid… and we left Starbuck’s to see “Super 8.” A baby was missing…and my heart aches… for the three year old curls… and my ability to forget her.

I was using a black sharpie today. She flashed through my head – an image did anyway. I never did know what she looked like. It didn’t make the Chicago news. But she mattered. She still does. Today I will tell you that you matter, and if you could pass it along…it’s just possible, it could be unforgettable.

I held up her portrait. She looked at herself, and caught her breath. I was worried because she wasn’t speaking… “Are you ok? Do you like it?” I asked. She was silent. I was nervous. Her head started shaking, as if to encourage the words. She hesitated and said softly – “I never really thought of myself as pretty before…” She was so surprised, almost as if she were seeing herself for the first time…. and I realized all the possibilities – if I could just show people how beautiful they actually were, if I could see it – maybe they could see it too…

There are certain surprises that I like.  Those that stop your heart for just one moment… make you catch yourself in a smile.  I like the small surprises that you can allow yourself, if you take the time.  Like really tasting cheese…when it melts so slowly on your wine-moistened tongue and breathes with you… mmmmm… that’s a nice surprise.  When you hear a song for the first time, one that you’ve played a million times, but then suddenly, one day, walking with headphones, the words and the music slip in deeply, and you hear them from the inside out… that’s a nice surprise.   Having your heart cracked wide open, and it keeps beating… that’s a nice surprise.   Seeing past the stereotypes, the armor, the disguises, and truly seeing people…that’s a nice surprise.  Celebrating the poets and the milk bottle throwers… living and loving with that same cracked and beautiful heart, that’s a wonderful surprise.  

Carrying my letters in a bottle, my heart and mind wide open… surprise me.  

My mind is fast – not necessarily smart… but it moves quickly and can pick up speed with what ifs…  complete conversations (both sides) of what could happen.  And then I have to tell myself to just slow down… let my mind be still.

Be still.  

I fell in love with the library right away.  When I was in the first grade, every Thursday we got to pick out a library book.  The library.  The smell of old, turned, eyed pages… limitless worlds to visit and friends to make… the endless possibilities. Aaahhh, the possibilities… that’s where my love affair with the library slightly went off track.  On Wednesday nights I would panic.  There was never enough time given to pick out the right book.  I wanted the best book.  The right book.  The book that would take me away.  Take me to the most wondrous of places.  It was so important.  So many of the other 6 year olds just  picked anything off the shelf… or maybe they knew… it seemed so easy for them.  Wednesday night – no sleep.  Then my mother would climb into my bed.  She would tell me to go to a section.  Touch the bindings.  Be still, and you’ll know.  Be still.  She was right.   I breathed.  I touched.  I chose.  I was in love again.  

It’s a rainy day in Aix en Provence.  I hold my book (on my ipad) in my hand.  I imagine the smell of Washington Elementary Library.  I am still…and in love.