Some days are made of nothing. They taste like nothing and they smell like nothing. Days like these aren’t meant to go down in the portals of your personal history. They are passing through days rich in teeny moments of nothingness we can choose to embrace or abhor.
Today I have done nothing of any significance. Nothing I will remember ever after. I will not say, aah now that was the day I planted more broad beans. The day the heart shaped maya gold cake was crispy around the edges. I surely won’t remember the hour on the sofa, drowsy in the afternoon sun. Finleys constant chatter. The basket in the kitchen I lined with oilcloth and filled with this and that. For sure I won’t recall opening the front door to pour water on my primulas, nor chatting about who knows what with the lovely woman behind the post office counter. Will I say I watched the woman next doors face light up when her new boyfriend arrived? That I shouted at my Mum (Sorry Mum!) or lectured Finley about biting his nails? Perhaps I will remember dipping all the eggs in the fridge in food colouring and staining the worktop at the same time. Or maybe I will remember tripping over the hole in the lino in the kitchen and simultaneously teaching my son to swear at the same time? Who knows…
Because perhaps tonight will be the night I read a poem that tells me what I need to know. Perhaps this Tuesday in April will be fragranced in my mind by Cath Kidston Lavender handcream forever after. Maybe the phone call that never comes finally will. Maybe my feet will never be this cosy again. Certainly Finn will never be this young again. Because maybe today is the day I planted seeds that really will bear fruit. Or sprouts and cabbage as the case is more likely to be.
Maybe today was wonderful.