As I meander away from my car after another dreary day of work, I stop. I suddenly realize what a beautiful day it is and wonder how it has escaped my notice for so many hours. In the heavens, I see blue sky that stretches out into the wild blue yonder for eternity. A blue canvas appears painted with white and gray puffs of cotton-candy clouds. I hear birds singing such a wondrous melody. What a perfect day for sleeping in the cool shade as the fowl of the air sing the perfect lullaby.

I stood there, closed my eyes, took a deep expanding breath. It had recently rained. I so enjoy basking in fresh air, laced with assorted fragrances after a nice, docile rain. I imagine how I used to feel during the Spring and Fall seasons of my childhood. I yearn for the innocence of those days. Cars, trucks, buses, and motorcycles grumble by in the near distance. It may seem odd to say, but the fragrance of diesel exhaust brings pleasant memories; vague memories of my toddler years in Chicago. I remember long wooden hallways and long wooden stairs leading to our second-floor apartment in South Chicago.

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Then a slight but sudden shift in the air sends the mouth-watering aroma of sizzling bacon and brazing beef wafting across and intermingling with the heavens most closely approximated with Earth. Along with this delight come more pleasant recollections. These are memories of sharing breakfast with dear ole Grandpa after church on Sundays. I used to love going to Coney-Island-style restaurants where breakfast is served twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Biscuits with sausage gravy, western omelets, French toast with maple syrup… I can taste them now just thinking about them.

I feel a cool, brief but gentle gust of wind; bringing the stark reality that cruel winter months lie just ahead. The soft, lilting breeze warms up just long enough for me to enjoy a few more pleasant memories. I remember building a huge, eight-foot snowman with my brother when I was about nine. The snow was the wet, fluffy type of snow that is great for making snowballs of all sizes. Ours were big enough to make a giant.

As I stand there relaxing, enjoying the intermittently cool, then warm breeze, my fingers slowly opening, my camera case falls out of my hand and hits the ground. I am startled back to my senses. Without success, I attempt to re-enter my Zen-like, meditative state.  I realize that such repose is necessarily brief. My work requires electronic messages to be promptly delivered. And of course, this writing assignment is due tomorrow.

I sit at my desk typing, intermittently drifting off in daydreams. I attempt to engage my imagination and intellect in such a way as to produce an interesting, slightly amusing piece of work. A short composition, if you will, about my afternoon.