The Ramblings of a Hopeless Observer

It is, my friends, officially summer. Not the season. Oh no, that doesn't begin until June 21st. I can
confidently say that most of us up here in the Northern Hemisphere are eagerly awaiting that day.
Although it is not yet summer by the astronomical or meteorological definitions, it is summer vacation.
School is out, children need not spend hours laboring over homework, and in a matter of a few weeks,
we will all (most certainly be sunburnt and bored half to death. Best time of the year.

One of the things I like to do best with all of my hours of leisure time is walk to the library. It's about a
thirty-five minute stroll each way, and with plenty of parched lawns and meticulously tended to gardens
to keep me company, the time simply flies. And then you're there. You've made it, passed the sea of
suburban houses and dusty trucks, to one of the most glorious places in the world. The library.

Now, my favorite part about the library (apart from the books - I checked out Mary Oliver's Devotions
today) is the sheer number of children. Out of all the things in the world, children never fail to inspire me.
Especially children who read. They are filled with this sort of carefree innocence and curiosity, show
complete disregard toward the customary silence in the library, and just brighten up everything. Plus,
they still read picture books. And picture books are magical.

Another thing I adore about the library? The fact that I can get a cappuccino while reading Mary Oliver.
What an incredible combination.

During my time at the library, I wrote a little piece I thought I'd share with you all. It's not brilliant by any
means. In fact, it's more of a spill page. A collection of wonderings. One might go so far as to call it
"The Ramblings of a Hopeless Observer." Yes, let's go with that.

Anyway. It's random, it fits in nowhere, and it is, arguably, rubbish. But writing it was a complete joy.
People are magnificent, you know, and if you take a moment to sit in the corner of a library cafe, simply
listening, I can guarantee you'll learn something. Try it sometime. Let me know how it goes.

---

Today is June the third and I am sitting at the smallest table in the library cafe. Across from me, behind
my computer screen and the foamy, watered down cappuccino is Malik. I know he is called Malik
because there is a little red paper clinging to his green-white striped shirt which reads, ‘Malik.’ The
librarian likely put it there during story time. Malik has the kind of hair I would want in my second life, if
such a thing were to exist, which it doesn’t - deep chocolate curls, smooth near his scalp, spiraling into
ringlets towards the nape of his neck. Malik is probably two, maybe three, and his teal socks are
fantastic. Across from Malik sits a man I can only assume is his father. They have the same chocolate
curls, but his father’s are capped with a black fedora. My friend Adam likes fedoras, and I consider telling
him about this one, but I don’t. It’s a thing of non-importance, isn’t it? Just an ordinary black fedora on
an ordinary June day. But perhaps, I think, I should tell him. Often things of apparent non-importance are
the most important of them all.

Malik’s father is speaking in a language I don’t understand, but probably should. The little baby in the
stroller is holding books saying ‘Comida’ and 'Mariposa,' which are, obviously, Spanish, but I am not sure
this is the same tongue they are speaking. Either way, it’s a beautiful language. Lots of flipped 'r's. Lots of
inflection. Now, Malik’s blue-polo-grey-vested father is rolling Malik’s stroller-bound brother away, and
Malik is straying after them, and now it is time for goodbye. Goodbye Malik, I think.

I wonder if Malik will enjoy reading when he is in middle school. Eleven was the age my friend Dylan
stopped enjoying books, which was one of the most heart-breaking tragedies I’ve ever witnessed.
Including Mr. Grossman’s Yelp page. A child losing a love of words is far more devastating than reading
an AP teacher’s... sensual reviews of everything from Great Clips to sandwich shops.

I hope the administrators at my school never find Mr. Grossman's Yelp page. If they ever do, I'd imagine
an extremely embarrassing conversation would ensue.

And now there is a little blonde boy in a red t-shirt, holding a tiger stuffed animal twice his size. He runs
up from behind me and says ‘hi,’ and then he keeps running until his equally blonde mother scoops him
up. I think she was naturally blonde once, but now I can see her brunette roots. They don't look half bad.

And the barista with all of the tattoos and the trendy clear glasses, Scarlet, says to her friend, “I think you
have to admire writing if you’re a reader, in some way, at least.” I don’t believe I’ve agreed with anything
as much as I do this. Then she says, “Citric Acid. Bad.”

I will admit, I’m confused. Very confused.

Two more small children run passed me. A tall thin boy clad in orange Nike walks behind me, wheeling
a little book wagon. He must be stocking up for the hot summer days ahead. Smart kid.

This is, I’ve decided, is the place to be on a warm June third, and I wonder how I’ve never done it before.
Just sitting with a coffee, and with Mary Oliver’s “Devotions” in the corner, observing quietly. When I
observe people, I wonder if they notice me observing. I wonder if it scares them, or intrigues them, or if
they don’t notice at all. It is a curious thing to ponder - are they observing you back? Are you both,
simultaneously, reading each other’s facial expressions, coming to conclusions about one another
through clothing, posture, coffee orders? Are you, perhaps, both considering saying hello, both
wondering who the other is, wanting to hear their story? It must be the best to be a dormouse. I’m sure
they feel this way all the time.

The olive skinned, Peter-Capaldi-haired man at the counter is making small talk. The teenage couple
grab their large mango smoothie and almond milk chai. Neither of them are smiling. A small boy in a
‘Cool Like Dad’ tank, Ryan, is mumbling to his mom. She has the kind of hair I’d like to have in my
third life, if such a thing existed, which it doesn’t - long, honey brown, silky. There is not a lot of sunlight
on this warm June third, but her hair seems to reflect every ray that isn't there. And the pretty haired
mother responds to her son’s mumblings, says, “we’re not at home, we’re at the library.”

I pause.

What, I wonder, is the difference?

---

Thank you so much, everyone. Now, go enjoy summer. Go drink your lemonades and bask in the sun,
and I? I will run outside, where it is currently pouring rain, and splash in the gutters.

You're never too old to splash in the gutters.

- Maya

A Very, Very, Very Important Postscript: Happy Pride Month. To my friends and readers belonging
to the LGBTQIA+ community, I see you. You are worthy, and you are loved.

Photo by Mroux Bulikowska on Unsplash, Photo by iam Se7en on Unsplash,
Photo by Daniel Watson on Unsplash, Photo by Lawrence Walters on Unsplash,
Photo by Jonathan Borba on Unsplash, Photo by David Pisnoy on Unsplash
Photo by Fabian Blank on Unsplash, Photo by Sara Rampazzo on Unsplash