I’m not going to tell you, not today, maybe not even tomorrow. I’m not going to tell you because it means too much to me and I don’t want you to tell me it’s silly or self-indulgent. But I will tell you this: one day I’m going to take each day on my own terms. Wake up in the morning when I’ve slept enough, eat ice cream for breakfast and lunch, then go to a museum or a library, like the library on 12th Avenue. You know the one, that beautiful old Carnegie library that smells of old books and has beautiful, sweet rooms that hold only soft murmurs as people whisper for help or check out books.
That’s where I’ll be in the afternoons, trolling for books on those old shelves, or reading in a hidden corner. I’ll let my imagination open up, fully bloom – no telephone ringing, no doorbell buzzing, no mailman slamming the box shut, no bells, no ringers, just quiet, a beauty rest for my mind. I’ll find a book of poetry and begin to whisper the words. Then I’ll write a few words of my own on the back of a sales slip, but too many will fly out and I’ll have to ask the librarian for a sheet of scrap paper to write them down. When they stop, I’ll close my eyes, take a moment of ease, then read the next poem in that book.
Maybe after days or weeks of this I’ll long for the sounds of birds chirping, the rustle of leaves, the music of an ice cream truck. If I do, I’ll go outside, sit in the park and take big gulps of air, tilt my face up to the sun, dance a little. If you find me there, dancing, you’ll know it’s time. Take my arms and swing me around. Then I will tell you. I’ll tell you everything.