The Day of Possibilities, by Nancy Osborn

The day . . .

when nothing happens

of sorting spools of thread

of sitting on the upstairs porch in the sun, drinking too much coffee and wishing there were still weeks of summer to come

of backyard sweeping

of silence, when I talk to no one

of smiles

of no slugs or snails on the garden walkway


The day . . .

of facing the fact that I'm not a very courageous person

of loving the feeling of my sneakers and socks (that are not falling down) as I walk down the street

after a night of uninterrupted sleep

of no internet connection

of no obligations to anyone

of being curious

of eating only healthy foods

of cleaning the spiders out of the basement


The day . . .

I stop fretting over how I lost my favorite shawl

of not dwelling on how far our nation has fallen in the realm of civility

of looking at every person I pass on the street and wondering what they are grateful for

I throw out my folder of resumes; I'm done applying for jobs

I consider the merits of meditation, which is probably not the best approach; I should just pull out my bench and sit

I realize that despite those fantasies of my younger years, I'm never going to be a back-to-the-land homesteader

I delete everything on my Amazon Wish List because I've read that article about "how many books do you realistically think you can read in the remaining years of your life" and I know my Amazon list is far too long and I already have more books stacked by my bed than I can ever read

I consider who I want to be in my next lifetime; a creator of illuminated manuscripts is my number one choice


The day . . .

I really sit down and try to devise that message to someone I think is my high school friend, our connection lost these last 20 years, whose name I found on the internet. I need to say enough so she'll know it's me, but not enough for it to come back and bite me if it isn't her. I think of this in the same way I used to construct love letters to potential romantic partners. Cryptic, but secretly meaningful, if they know the sender.


The day . . .

I finish the letter I've owed to my brother since July. A brother I hardly know as we went our own ways back in another century. But now that we are approaching the last decades of our lives, it seems as though I am longing to reach across the years and miles to find what was lost between us for all this time; to see whether there is anything that might fill in the gap between us.


The day . . .

I take out my mother's journals and try, again, to transcribe her reflections on her love for her best friend — a love she never revealed to her friend, as far as I can tell. But I like to believe her friend knew, as you often can know these things, without the need of language.


The day . . .

I start writing my honest feelings about how I've led my life. It seems like it might be now or never. What have I been waiting for? What knowledge about myself do I already possess that I can't bring myself to commit to the reality of ink on paper.


The day . . .

I re-read the various love letters I've received in my life. There are four packets of them in the attic, and their contents tell me something about myself, or at least the self I was in the imaginations of these lovers.


The day . . .

I finally sit down to write that tell-all memoir I've promised a friend. The memoir of men, women, and sex in my life. I've only gotten as far as compiling the list of who I'll write about and the pseudonyms I'll assign to them.


The perfect day . . .

One that is all my own, with nothing on my schedule.