Leap year is coming, an extra day—an extra chance to live for the passion that pounds in the ears and courses through the veins. With an extra day at my disposal, I’d like to think I’d escape to a lakeside cabin, or a new city where the outdoor cafes are frequented by colorful and interesting people. I’d pack up my journals, my books and my pens, and grab some fruit and cheese.
I’d walk down the streets or along the water, and look for signs of spring in the February landscape. Red mittens pulled off of my hands, I’d free my fingers to write. Shivering over a mug of coffee, watching people hurry by on their way to whatever demands their attention, I’d be writing about their wind chapped cheeks, their flapping scarves, and the urgent clip of their shoes on the sidewalk.
I’d like to imagine that’s how I would spend that extra February day, filling the hours with the paper, ink and words I so love. But it’s more likely that I’d spend my bonus day catching up on housework, paying bills. So if you’re sitting at that little café on February 29, I’ll be the brunette woman in the black coat hurrying on my way toward whatever demands my attention. Maybe you’ll write about my red scarf flapping in the winter wind.
Worthy of Note: February 30, 1712
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