After two failed attempts and nearly ten years, I'm finally catching up with Kanani this weekend at her home with Doug, Madison (nearly 6), and Emma (9 months) in Norfolk, VA. Driving in late last night from DC, I shoved the roof in the trunk and welcomed the salty scent of the ocean, something so familiar from my years in Boston, and yet so missing from my life these days. Later today we'll probably drive over to Virginia Beach to catch a peak... and the idea of waves and little girls and laughter shared between two old friends is such a relaxing prospect to contemplate.

As we sat catching up with one another last night, Kanani told me that Madison had asked if she could stay up until I arrived-- so excited about meeting me-- and Kanani told her that she could get into bed and read until I arrived. When Kanani described the enormous stack of books that Madison carted into bed and her adorable, and yet failed, attempt to stay awake late into the night, I was immediately so touched. These tiny little creatures have such a unique way of making you believe that you are just about the most important thing on earth.

Earlier this week, B and I were talking about writers I've met and my story about Michael Chabon came up again. Very early in our relationship, I had told B how I once went to a Michael Chabon book reading and signing during the release of Wonder Boys and after waiting in line for nearly 45 minutes, I asked him to sign two copies of The Mysteries of Pittsburgh and a newly purchased Wonder Boys. As he opened my one waterlogged and very bumpy copy of Mysteries he made a rather rude comment about not treating his book with much respect and not bothering to take care of something into which he invested a lot of time. I was so put off at the time that I went home, cataloged his comment in my mind forever, placed my unread copy of Wonder Boys on the shelf, and left it there for almost five years until I decided to let bygones be bygones. B told me that it was one of his favorite stories about me-- how I create this world around me where everyone is a character in my life. And in this world of mine, not reading Chabon's book directly impacted him-- for if I wasn't reading it, who was?

I guess in a way it's a charming, but immature, brand of egocentrism. But I was reminded of it again as I thought about Madison's impression of me this weekend. An odd, quirky stranger who lives under her roof for a few days and tells her stories and runs and laughs like a full grown child. How at this point, I'm not only in someone else's house, I'm in someone else's imagination.

And I find that it's an exciting place to be.