Work in Progress

"I go to seek a great perhaps."

When I was a child, I thought the future was pure magic. I tossed pennies into wishing wells, made pro/con lists about how to get from the Point A to the Point B that I so desperately desired. I wrote myself letters, dated to someone else; to an older and wiser version of myself, who wouldn't make the same mistakes I did. 

If only I knew then that the mistakes would just get messier. 

When I was a child, I was always afraid that I would die before the listy-lettered-penny-tossed future would come into fruition. By seven, I made more wills than I knew (there were only two William's in my elementary school). I don't know if I'll ever be able to understand why I was so convinced my death was eminent. But I was always afraid. In those wills, I gave away my Beanie Babies. I saved my butterfly (because she was the prettiest) and the seal who shared my birthday. I probably left those for my mommy. And that's a big deal.


Now, when I worry that I'm probably dying, I wonder how I'll be remembered. As a seven year old, with an extensive Beanie Baby collection, thoughts like that don't quite phase you. 21, and determined to build collections of poetry or students or hats I can imagine it. I've been to wakes. They're lonely. I hope death isn't that lonely. 


I realize that this is all a shot in the void (much like anyone reading these words, anyway). So instead of worrying about the things that will come: Death, loss, what's left of tomorrow...I am off to seek a great perhaps.


Perhaps it will be broken heels and bad haircuts.
Perhaps it will be love.
Perhaps it will be smudged nail polish
Or ink stains.
Perhaps it will be perfume and promises.
Perhaps it will be second-chances
Perhaps butterflies
and daisies 
Perhaps caverns and taverns.
Perhaps it will be you.