She was entirely part of the city, then, one wild-ass little dot of energy and matter, and she made her thousand choices, instant to instant, according to how the traffic flowed, how rain glinted on the streetcar tracks, how a secretary's mahogany hair fell like grace itself, exhausted, to the shoulders of her loden coat.

William Gibson, Virtual Light

Today was a beautiful day to be part of the city.

Brilliant sunshine, blue sky, puffy white clouds in stripes across the sky. I should have worn my wool jacket, but by the time I realize that, it's too late to return, so I wrap my scarf around my neck, blow on my hands, and keep moving.

Running for the train at Government Center, sprinting across the station, leaping up the steps just in time. Usually, I would expect to catch a toe on a step and land on my stomach on the floor of the car, but my feet are fleet and light today.

Little boy with his mother on the seats near me as I hang on to a pole and lean against the doorway. The mother wears an interesting black hat, very stylish; the boy wears a little red brimless cap, gloriously embroidered, tilted way back on his head. How does it stay on? I don't ask. He is enchanting. The mother catches me looking fondly at the boy, and we exchange smiles.

Trot up the steps and run my errands. I pick up a large box at FedEx, too large for my little canvas bag on wheels. I tuck it under my arm, braced against my hip. It's heavy. But we make it safely to the park.

I have no more hands to carry anything, so I skip the farmers' market and Iggy's Bread and the temptation of another sage plant. Instead, I lean against a tree and watch a scruffy juggler on the grass, dark blond hair curling to his shoulders. Every time he drops a ball, he keeps the other two going in one hand while he reaches down to get the third. Children stare, come closer, stare some more.

Finally a boy approaches, his manner questioning, and the juggler produces more juggling balls from his pack and hands them over. They face each other, hands open. Toss one up, transfer the other, catch the first. The boy tries, fails, keeps trying. He gets it, finally. Now toss one up, keep your eye on it, toss the other as the first begins its descent. The boy tries, fails, tries again. He can't get it. I sympathize; neither can I. The boy finally tosses the balls back to the juggler, thanks him, goes back to his mother. The juggler goes back to juggling.

His hands must be freezing. I wait until he drops the balls again and turns toward me, then blow him a kiss and head off, disappearing into the crowds of pedestrians.

I come home. My superintendent has saved my Airborne Express package for me. The other boxes have not arrived. I take the front elevator to my floor, greet the cat, unload my stuff, change into yoga pants and flannel shirt.

I am happy for the first time in days. I wouldn't live anywhere else.