Waiting under the twinkling Christmas lights, fingers touching the frayed, cotton souvenir scarf dangling on my neck, I am reminded of the library in my old school. My safe haven, my special space of solitude for those many times when I arrived too late for classes.
I am reminded of that small group of close friends, all of whom were strange and patient enough to stand by the mute who never spoke a word during the course of their friendship. I am reminded of a series of illustrated books on famous figures of the world, one of which taught me how Isadora Duncan was choked by her own scarf which got entangled around a car wheel.
I was reminded of her when my perhaps overly long scarf got inexplicably stuck on some lady’s backpack zipper as she exited the elevator this morning. I was reminded of her when I took off my scarf as I was about to cross a crowded street. I am reminded of her now as I cautiously hold the ends of my scarf, amused that a trivial thing I read about more than a decade ago, long before I came to fear mortality, would come to haunt me on this day.