Thirty-One: Week Fifty-Two

Days three hundred and fifty-eight through three hundred and sixty-six

Welcome back to Thirty-One, the project where I attempt to write something every day for a year. This is the final installment. If you missed any previous issues (or you just want to go back and re-read the whole thing), you can find them here.

Day Three Hundred and Fifty-Eight (April 18th)
The last week of this project has begun, and I want to start it off with something poignant. Unfortunately, the only thing coming to mind is Europe’s “The Final Countdown.”

Day Three Hundred and Fifty-Nine (April 19th)
Gerald, the not-swan, is still stuck in the storm drain. Part of me wants to free him. Part of me hopes he never leaves. 

Day Three Hundred and Sixty (April 20th)
Life will rip your still-beating heart 
from your chest, but eventually 
it will return you to yourself
with unexpected gentleness 
and the knowledge 
that you can survive anything 

Day Three Hundred and Sixty-One (April 21st)
I kayaked the mangrove trails of Weedon Island today, which in and of itself is a kind of magic. The dim tunnels empty out into the open expanse of Tampa Bay before narrowing once more into quietude. In the tunnels, at one point, my friend spotted a yellow-crowned night heron stalking its prey. It waded in the tangle of roots, searching for tree crabs. The heron spotted us around the same time we spotted it. We all stopped to observe one another, the heron’s bright orange-yellow eyes holding us in thrall. Eventually, the bird grew bored and moved on, bobbing its head in search of food. My friend and I also carried on, but the image of the night heron remained with me. 

Day Three Hundred and Sixty-Two (April 22nd)
My body hurts
and I cry for my pain. 

Exhaustion abounds
and I cry for lost time.

Expectations drop by the wayside
and I cry for who I could have been.

Self-pity comes with self-awareness 
and I cry for my sorry state of affairs.

Today is one of the bad days
and all I can do is cry.

Day Three Hundred and Sixty-Three (April 23rd)
soft wind through the trees
carries me from my troubles
I become weightless 

Day Three Hundred and Sixty-Four (April 24th)
The end is nigh
and I’m sleeping through it

Day Three Hundred and Sixty-Five (April 25th)
Cicadas in the heat of summer 
give voice to the feeling 
of sunlight on skin. Magic vibrates
through the air, singing of the unseen.

Day Three Hundred and Sixty-Six (April 26th)
The end and the beginning 
tend to meet in the middle
because nothing is ever really over
and nothing is ever really new.

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