Beginning

Here, in this room where I sometimes work, the early afternoon sun streams in unabashedly. My cats stretch, lounge, yawn and nap curled up in golden pools avoiding the shadows. The room is sparsely furnished. A desk, a watercolor on the wall and books...

Books. When I moved continents five years ago, I brought my cat along and left my books behind. I never went back to bring them to where I am. Who knows where I would be? Who has time to read? 

But, they have been creeping back into my life, an almost invisible resurrection of a torrid love affair that died an equally invisible death five years ago. My books in this continent do not have a shelf yet but have been collecting in slowly growing towers. Mostly old favorites that are now taking on a new meaning. I barely noticed the reference to Chicago's Lake Shore Drive in Maugham's The Razor's Edge when I first read the book decades ago, but now I pause, smile and savor the memory of one of my frequent Chicago haunts. 

I think I like this feeling. I am out of practice. I am clearing my throat. Just a ditty or two.  Dare I hope for more?