The Normal Extraordinary

I turned down the handle on the hydrant, satisfied enough with the water level for now.

The soft click made me know it was shut off all the way.

I walked partway to the house on grass. What do you call the sound my footfalls make?

Partway on gravel. It was kind of a muffled crunch. Like trying to eat potato chips in the library.

I looked to the last orange cotton ball cloud in the western sky and smiled at the Artist.

I tugged off one glove and stuffed it into my pocket.

I fed the cats, emptying what was left in the five-gallon bucket.

I fed Guido and made a mental note to put dog food on my grocery list.

I turned off the garage light and stepped into the wash room.

I firmly pulled the door shut behind me and peeled off my jacket.

I hung it on the nail that was like all the other nails all down the row, each hidden by a coat.

I laid Guido’s dinner bowl on the towel that covers his part-time bed.

I took in the quiet. Not even the furnace was on.

I was alone.

I was not alone.

All these things are so extremely banal.

They are each extraordinary when examining one single element at a time.

They are my normal vanilla day.

They are five hundred gifts that bundle to make a Present.

Everyday is like a birthday.

Or a rebirthday.