On the train ride the other morning to see my nephew—and his parents, who, of course, get the shorter end of the stick in being mentioned ever since he came around—I noted a few things I wanted to tell him about. I saw six benches caught under the thickest of fogs, laid near a waterlogged field impeccably impersonating a lake. They were meticulous in their arrangement and evenly spaced in an arc around its bank. I wondered who comes to sit there. Perhaps, it is a secret meeting place, invisible in its perfect visibility, hidden only in plain sight and perhaps in the thicket of the morning fog. I had such places with cousins my age, and we used to name them and spend hours in them, concocting stories that we did not know we would forget. Then, I saw a young boy who could not have been a day older than sixteen, walking along the train track, wearing his grey school uniform, looking sharp and yet distracted by the ever-wide view ahead of him. He walked with the lax attitude that only someone who knows where they are going can wear. I thought if my nephew would walk like this to school one day, too. I hope he is as calm in his confidence as the boy I saw. Then, I saw the sunrise amidst the hills and the forest, and this was followed almost immediately by a brook and a trail, followed by the river they both led to, and the train zoomed past all of this. In the last leg of the journey, I read a book about the love of books, and I made a note to myself again to give him one when he gets to the age of reading. Not to force it on him, no, but to make sure a book is kept somewhere in the foreground in the off chance that boredom strikes. Perhaps, he, too, develops similar absurdities like I have, noticing things most people would not turn around to look at.