Tomorrow and it’s another long weekend. I have nothing planned except the customary lunch at the park, a drink with friends on Sunday, and some time with the kids. I just calculated how many Saturdays I would have till I breathe my last. 2,456 days (if I live to be 85). And yet I always think it is unending.
How many more sunsets? (Brandon Lee once posed this question and he died at 33.) How many more times do I get to dip in the ocean and lick the salt off my lips? How many more deep and wet kisses, the kind that seeps to my soul? How many more songs to belt out with my girls, their high-pitched voices and jumbled words? How many more prancing ballerinas, clumsy pirouettes that I often fail to capture? How many more days till I am no longer the queen and my every word magic? How many books, how much more wine, how much time to write another poem, and how many more times will I be in love?
I feel life slipping me by, as I sit here, staring at my screen, wondering what to do. And as I write this, I remember how often I have aimed to seize moments, and how often I have let them pass me by. I don’t want to wish I could, have done this or that, stayed longer at the beach, burnt myself crisp, crooned and twirled, kissed you more than I should. But that’s that. And now I have tomorrow, a Saturday and 2 more days of nothing to do after that. Oh the things I ought to do. So, what about bracing the beach even if there might be a storm? Or what about being bold about love, abandon into its exquisite joy? Because tomorrow my count goes down to 2,455, and that is, if I live till 85.