What would happen
2 happen if/
3 in the coming/
5 three days I addressed every/
8 last nagging task, taunting angels sitting on my/
13 shoulder this month?
What if I answered every e-mail, every letter, every phone/
21 call; filed every paper; read every magazine; loaded those items onto etsy I prepared fifteen months ago; put the Lily Pulitzer/
34 dress (with tags) on ebay; cleaned the dogs' ears, the garage, and the patio; de-accessioned the found pieces I don't truly love; repaired the veneer on the cedar chest and went to Lowe's to/
55 purchase the Johnson Paste Wax that will return the chest to its original splendor; framed the emerging cicada to place beside the fully emerged one; filed those last medical bills that turned up in the wrong folder; rode my bicycle, walked my dogs, kissed my fella, called my mom, bought the batting for that one/
89 quilt and stitched a top for that darling girl; edited manuscripts and printed out Fibonaccis and decided which bishop needs which piece of mail. art and -- oh, yes, I've been putting this off -- write the letter they're awaiting without knowing it? What would happen if I cleaned the bathrooms and kitchen, finished the big art projects, mailed my pieces to A Book about Death and Imagine Blue Squirrels, and hung the art now leaning against the walls? What would be left if, after that, I still felt unfinished?