Bug Juice

The world likes to insist we only live once.

That never sounded right to me.

We only die once.

Living happens every day,

again and again,

in quiet moments we hardly notice.

I remember things in pieces.

That summer I started running,

the pavement still warm

long after the sun went down

and miles of footsteps traced beneath my feet.

I am still running

towards something else now.

Sunday trips to the gas station with mom.

Her moments, now ended

but still return as memory.

Memories sweeter than bug juice,

which you hated

that I loved.

The winter of the crash,

the tires spinning

against a road

that refused to hold me.

The sun shining on the snow

so bright it turned the world white

for a moment

I thought

I might already be in heaven.

Small moments I didn’t know

I was keeping

until now,

when they return like proof

that living was happening

the whole time.

And we wake

again

and again

and again.

Not one life,

but thousands of small days

stitched together so tightly

we forget to see the seams.

Because you can’t add days to your life,

only life to your days.

But tomorrow

is still empty.

A handful of hours

still waiting.

And the strange thing is

I have no idea

what I will do with it.

No plan.

No promise.

No moment set aside for me ahead.

Just tomorrow

slowly making its way toward me.

And somehow

I am

so excited.

That uncertainty feels like breath,

like proof that life

is still happening,

again.