We can’t measure the promise of a day in the good luck moments of a morning.
We don’t find it in the right bright sun.
Or in the still calm.
The lack of sirens, honks or shouts don’t hint at anything.
Looking for signs as we trace our regular routine route from many a morning before is also futile.
It’s not in the full cup of coffee. The wiped clean board. The stacks of notebooks, ready.
It isn’t in the quiet. In the noticing. The hoping.
It isn’t hiding waiting to be found.
The promise of a day doesn’t know itself.
It doesn’t announce its arrival in advance.
It doesn’t whisper or yell, “I am here. Notice now.”
The promise of a day is felt in moments. There is a shiver, an extra breath, an extended minute.
When it happens, you will know. Even if sometimes, you hesitate.
But absolutely, the promise of a day is known as night falls.
You have collected it in your arms like a snuggly child. A pile of warm laundry. A stack of tippy books.
Now when you pause and give it your full attention, it unravels and reveals all of its intricacies.
It was possible all along.
In the frustrated sighs.
In the timid smiles of pride.
In the tiny moments of kindness.
It was there when you smiled. When you laughed instead of roared. When you listened instead of talked. It was there when you nodded at a question not spoken aloud. In the little hand that reached for yours. When your response held no judgement. When you welcomed forgiveness.
The promise of a day will happen again. Tomorrow.
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