Last Day

If someone had told me that would be my last day outside,

I think I would’ve put my homework aside.

Instead of going home, I’d have gone out to eat. Stood on the table to call for the waiter, asked them to dance with me. Then I’d have my meal. Stand up to leave. Slip them a napkin note with these words, I quote, “check under my seat,” which is where I’d have left them a tip with some sweets. Next, I’d make my way to the arcade, then grow unsure of what to play. Decide it’s too early to leave. Recline on the dashboard of a slot machine. Reach into my backpack, take a book out and read. Can’t focus with blops and beeps floating about and the words get drowned out by kids’ screams and shouts.

Sit there and realize that actually, I like it.

For months I won’t get to breathe air this exciting.

I’d scamper outside once I start to feel tired. Find a spot in the city and build a campfire. Maybe roast dinner. Pitch a tent under a streetlamp as the moon climbs higher. Come rush hour, I’d lie face-down on the sidewalk. See if I’m able to make a snow angel and fail miserably. Get dirt in my teeth. A crowd gathers around me. I flip over and scrape my cheek. Ignore their eyes and tickle their feet. I laugh and laugh at the sky until they leave. Maybe I won’t leave. I’ll just lie here. I’ll lie here and wait for the future to disappear.

A bit carried away.

I guess I just wanted to say that this is how I wish my last day outside went.

Of course, I ended up doing my homework instead.