Our second afternoon in New Zealand was one of those crisp and sunny early fall days that you can expect in the southern United States right around Labor Day. Of course, it was the day before Easter, but in the Southern Hemisphere that means autumn is just around the corner.
It could have reminded me of Labor Day weekend because Laura and I spent that afternoon next to the beach on an island called Waiheke and most Labor Day weekends I manage to make my way to a beach for one last stinging sunburn before my winter white skin sets in. Anyway, after a very large lunch on a very large porch (something also reminiscent of my beach time), we meandered through the streets on the small island, popping in and out of art galleries and quaint boutiques.
Eventually we made our way into a small children's bookstore where the petite owner was dressed like a fairy complete with sparkles on her face, a tiny upturned nose and long tendrils in her hair. The shop was filled with old and new children's books and miniature chairs meant for very small bodies. Across the wall in the store had been painted the following passage in whimsical letters. I love it.
Once upon a time long, long ago before time was caught and put in clocks in a time when magic was easier to find...there was a story.
Do you mean like a book?
No, I mean like a story.
A book story.
No, a story-story like the first stories. One that falls in through your eye when you are out staring up at the stars one night, or perhaps you swallowed it...or maybe it seeped in through your skin like air or water or the thick warm scent of summer, or maybe you caught it like a cold from your great, great, great grandmother, or like a fish on a long line of truth... Do you remember someone telling you a story?
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