By Leah Umansky
/ Poetry /
In Only Murders in the Building, one character
says to another, what would your last day on Earth be like?
and I let that question live with me—it’s a way to see
the meaning in a day, but then I realize that every day
doesn’t have to have meaning, does it? Should it?
Then, I think, well, I guess that’s the point of being
present—that each day does have meaning, but do
we see it? Or is it about living a life, a day
that is meaningful to you? I surround myself with joy
and listen intently when a character tells another,
don’t let yourself love only one thing. Look at all the things
I love: walks, the duck pond in Central Park, letters, water,
music, books, stationary, the stars, the moon, the sun, sunsets
writing, reading, birds, cats, smiling at dogs (smiling at any
animal, really), hearts, stickers, restaurant pens, sliding mail
into a mailbox, stamps, free pencils, cheeseburgers, blue cheese
(most cheese actually), the ocean—its smell, its sound, its ever-changing hue—
cobblestones, boots, that first note of a song, the weekend, the Saturday
NYTimes, The Beatles, The Sound of Music, karaoke, tea, coffee,
a gingery-ginger ale, Cheetos, movie theaters, Broadway, text messages,
emails, spin class, a good egg sandwich, chocolate, a gin and tonic,
Scrabble, my bed, my friends, my mom’s laugh, my laugh.
(I know. I know). All the hours add up to something beautiful.
All the hours spent feeling sorry or sad, aren’t hours wasted,
but hours that make up a life. All the hours add up
to something beautiful, and even alone, I am in love.
Even alone, I am in love with so much. Even alone:
I am beautiful, I am full, I am holy.
* This poem was inspired by The Met Opera's production of The Hours and is for Christina Thomas Anderson.