Thirty-One: Week Seventeen
Days one hundred and thirteen through one hundred and nineteen
Welcome back to Thirty-One, the project where I attempt to write something every day for a year. If you missed any previous issues, you can find them by clicking here.
Day One Hundred and Thirteen (August 17th) soft thunder grumbles grey skies amble into view summer takes its time Day One Hundred and Fourteen (August 18th) Three young cardinals perched on my garden fence today while two similarly aged blue jays pranced along my roof. The birds twittered amongst themselves before launching into the trees, chasing each other through the low branches. Their high-pitched chatter was not unlike a gaggle of human children learning how to be in the world. If only we could know how precious that time was before it slipped through our fingers and became hindsight. Day One Hundred and Fifteen (August 19th) I’m not yet halfway into this year-long project, and I’m already sick of it. I spend all my time and ideas here while I neglect the rest of my writing. I’m irritated and annoyed and want to quit, but I quit a lot of things. I’m ashamed of that, and I’m trying to do better. Just because something is difficult doesn’t mean it’s not worth doing. Day One Hundred and Sixteen (August 20th) The scent of stones after a light rain is like hearing a song you can’t quite place. Petrichor smells as beautiful as it sounds, but a name only gets you so far. A name doesn’t tell you how it felt to run barefoot as a child, feet smacking wet pavement while the cries of youth offered thanks in the form of ecstatic joy. Day One Hundred and Seventeen (August 21st) Sometimes, the clouds float so quickly across the sky that it feels like I’m seeing a time-lapse. The wind they ride doesn’t always reach this far down, and I watch the sky show in stillness. Day One Hundred and Eighteen (August 22nd) The rain fell without warning, not even giving the clouds time to darken the sky. The low sun of late afternoon—tinged the yellow of impending weather—turned the rain to diamonds. Each drop sparkled and hit the ground like shattered glass. Day One Hundred and Nineteen (August 23rd) In ninth-grade biology, I learned that fruit is technically the flower’s ovary. At the time, eating ovaries gave a classroom full of teenagers a good laugh. But nearly twenty years later, I still think about that whenever I eat an apple. How many potential apple trees am I consuming? What lives am I enveloping into my own?
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