Because it’s the end of April and red buds flare on the recently bare maples. Too soon the branches will fill like armloads of farmer’s market lettuce. Art forms. While I run my knees buckle and clap back against my intentions. I’ve heard the sound bite that there is no life except today’s, but how can a whole life be lived in a day when I stand frozen in a room? The day is a navigation of my bones. The day is sitting in a metal folding chair. The day is squinting into the sky of birds returning. The day is meandering sidewalks. The day is a toll booth, a wax-bean seed packet, a rinsing of teeth, a rush to find a bathroom, an early arrival, a reservation for a departure. The day is extraordinary. The day is thinking I should call my mom and is my dad mad at me? The day is wondering when did my first thought upon waking stop being about my children? When did I start wondering if they are thinking about me? The day is a poetry reading and more than one poem is about the way we fear fading from people when we die. Sometimes I crave a quick heart stop, don’t say it out loud. To die before my spine goes crooked, my legs numb, my eyes blind.

Other times I want to live. To learn about synchronicity and scarab beetles. I’m munching on a baby cucumber and can’t believe such perfection exists. The day is spent thinking maybe this is the day I can step onto my lawn without sinking in. Today’s the day of the green shirt with giant flowers on it. Today is the day of waiting for a diagnosis. Today is the day that I have time to call my mom. Tonight in the dark I will trip over the curb, hear a killdeer’s cry cross overhead, warning me:   it’s time to go home    it’s dark out here    it’s dark out here.

Bio: Jessica Purdy