Littles

The visibility of breath

Let me tell you about the littles I’ve been celebrating, the fleeting and delightful moments that line the present with comfort and hope. 

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These littles spark bursts of energy that give way to me writing this. They gift me pockets of time and clarity here and there to read or occasionally channel novel ideas through the antennae of my bunched-up hair.

Littles hide in the air pockets of a warm loaf, allowing the fresh butter to seep in between mouthfuls of my newly returned appetite. Like a newly popped kernel, they propel me outside to enjoy what remains of the weather or indoors to tidy this neglected corner of the house or another.

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For a while, littles, along with fleece, lined the inside of my pyjamas, the appearance of which amused my friend, who moved in to administer late-night breath checks and ply me with an endless supply of warm drinks. Sometimes, the littles were folded dog ears marking the pages of my neighbour’s book when she stopped reading to walk my dog while I slept.

The sounds of littles vary. They were wheezes and cracks that struggled out as the air flowed in and out of my lungs. At times, they clicked and clacked as my sister typed away, sandwiching work between my urgencies and emergencies. They remain in the ten taps of my fingers against the table as I count the space between the inhales of the prescribed puffers, and in happy chirps as I run books through the library’s scanning machine.

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Littles smell of the season: warmed-up apple cider, musty leaves and pine needles on the ground, and cedar in the air. They have a bit of stickiness to them, left behind from the stamps carrying thank-you notes to folks near and far. On recent evening strolls, littles light up trees, storefronts, and insides of windows as the darkness sets in earlier with each shortened day, with glimmers reminding me to continue spotting and celebrating them.

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