My friend has loaned me a book. The author is half-Filipino, just like my friend and me. I read it eagerly. It feels familiar. The author’s writing style reminds me so much of my friend’s, and I relish the glimpses of the suburban neighbourhoods we grew up in.
I read it on the subway, standing in the doorway. I read it on an airplane, both directions, on a trip where I need the comfort of the familiar. When I read it I’m not thinking of finalities. I’m thinking of my friend, my warm suburban childhood, early morning winters. My friend has dog-eared some pages and I read those ones twice, carefully. I feel connected.