The last Ordinary Day

By: Dale L Hyde

If you knew today was the last day,
you would not waste the morning light
on screens that scroll past other lives.
You would step outside barefoot,
feel the dew claim your skin
like a quiet, urgent blessing.

You would call the ones you love
and say the words that usually wait
behind pride or fear or time—
I love you. I’m sorry. Thank you.
You matter more than I ever said.
You would eat the ripe peach slowly,
juice running down your wrist,
and watch a single bird
cross the sky without purpose
except to be alive in motion.

You would forgive the old wound
that still aches in the quiet hours,
not because it was small,
but because carrying it
would cost you this one remaining day.
You would laugh too loud at something ordinary,
hold a stranger’s gaze a second longer,
and leave the dishes in the sink
while the last sun paints the walls gold.

If you knew today was the last day,
you would stop rehearsing the future
and finally inhabit the present
as if it were already sacred—
which, of course,
it always was.