Tomorrow we head to the library for Ellie’s group “Storytime” for the morning. I will undoubtedly find myself sipping my Tim Horton’s tea that I will smuggle in the front door and sit behind a partition so as not to arouse any suspicion with the librarian about whether I have brought any food or drink into the building completely disregarding their handmade note posted on the outer door. There I will sit, surrounded by books. Two of those even happen to have been written by someone I knew when I waitressed as a teenager in Stratford and he waited tables at a sister restaurant. Books written by people I know. Real people, not just a sea of strangers lined up row after row, mocking me before I have even had time to realize that there are two sugars in my tea and not two milks the way I had ordered it. The kids make a conga line and march up and down the three aisles with tiny instruments they have fashioned out of craft supplies, crepe paper and bells. A parade through a library, celebrating books, while I hide in a corner, choking back a syrupy cup of tea, wondering if my name will one day grace those shelves.