Rather Suspect

How many moments will be worth remembering today?

The clouds overhead this morning looked like waffles, rippling across the sky, choppy ocean whitecaps.

The garbage truck crunched and thumped and made its stomping elephant racket like it does every Wednesday morning.

A pocketful of sparrows rolled about on the sidewalk in front of the French restaurant, seemingly confused by the day, or by each other.

What makes for a full day, a rich day, a noteworthy day? It’s barely 10am and all this has occurred, already.

Yesterday I saw a three-year-old girl point out a white butterfly to everyone lining up for breakfast in front of that same café. Look, she seemed to say, a little sparrow herself, using her whole body to communicate, arm out, hand out, following it with her smile. Do you see it? There. Don’t you see it?

The butterfly flew an impossible path, up, down, arcing out between two shrubs, and then suddenly stopped, mid-flight, frenetic fluttering yet frozen in space. All wings, only wings.

The adults continued to chat with each other, an unbroken murmur, leaving only the girl, alone, transfixed.

Do you see it, she seemed to ask again, with her face, her eyes, her body. It’s there. And there. And now there.

Don’t you see it?