Blueberry Pancakes

Staring at a blank piece of paper, you find you have nothing to say. You’ve long wondered when this day would come, the day you realize you’ve written everything there was to write and could finally put down your pen.

You’ve heard that everyone is born with a certain number of heartbeats—or is it exhales?—and after you’ve pumped all that air and blood, you are done.

How many miles to the finish line, you wonder. If you knew you had another twenty-five thousand miles to go, you could choose exactly when to arrive.

How many blueberry pancakes will you flip before you rest the spatula on the side plate for the last time? How many more times must you get on your hands and knees with a microfiber mop to coax the dust from underneath your bed?

You wonder, also, how many more times someone will make you laugh, gasping so hard that your cheek muscles cramp, or how many more times your heart will push wildly against your sternum at the sight of a horse with perfect conformation or a breathtaking cloud.

You search this morning’s colorless sky for clouds and find instead Orion’s belt fading like the smile on Carroll’s Cheshire Cat. But you are fairly sure clouds will eventually reappear as you pull on soft socks and slide your feet into a pair of worn sneakers.

You are certain you will see, hear, smell, touch, or think something wonderful today, or tomorrow, or the next day, and that’s when you realize that you probably will never run out of words and marvels, and that it doesn’t matter how many miles, heartbeats, or breaths it takes before you reach the end.