I’m back in Illinois this week – in the medium sized town that I lived in before following my older daughter to Mexico. It’s a town that sits in central Illinois, about 70 miles north of the smaller town that I grew up in.

Both are areas I often describe in Mexico simply as “not Chicago.” Although they are much more. They are the places of friends and family and memories. 

I owned a used book store in this town for seven years. They were years when e-readers and Amazon began bringing books into homes with an ease that didn’t require a trip to a bookstore. But that took away the pleasure of that trip too. 

The sign for the store is still up, beckoning people from off the street in bright red letters that can’t be missed. The green awning over the door is still there too, inviting people in for “gently used books.” I drive by the signs nearly every time I venture out from where I’m staying.

But the space is empty now. Even after two years, there is no new tenant, no shelves and no books.

There’s a vine that grows wild in Illinois along country roads and fence rows. A lifelong friend and I would go hunting for it every autumn, bringing home bundles that we would put in tall vases and watch the leaves slowly turn brown, highlighting the bright orange berries that had told us where to stop.

Often times we would see people selling small bunches of the vines at fall festivals and specialty shops and we would always think that the people who bought them were missing out on the fun of the search.

I think of both the vine and the bookstore as I visit this spot of tender memories. 

Both are called Bittersweet.