On impossible days grief winks in the mirror. It stares at me from the moon-silver stretchmarks below my bellybutton and triple dog dares me not to look away.
Because of this, I always carry knives on impossible days. A Swiss Army knife in my pocket. It opens bottles, unscrews corks, files fingernails, tugs splinters. Cuts too. My kid brother got a knife like this for Christmas once and stabbed himself the same day. 𝘔𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘮𝘢𝘴, I’d thought.
Five knives come with the takeout I order for dinner. They are plastic and wrapped in more plastic. I press my fingers against the edge of one because it can’t hurt me. I crush a fortune cookie within its wrapper (also plastic) so I can decide if I want that kind of luck. I’m reminded of how, in 2016, scientists found a grocery bag at the bottom of the Mariana Trench.
9–5 and 24/7 and 365 mean nothing to Impossible days. They don’t care about “federal holidays” or “three-day weekends.” They have never read “The 4-Hour Work Week” because all their library holds came at once and they let it expire. They are governed by an astrology of spilled coffee, shrunken sweaters, and needing a goddamn pen when you’ve only got pencils.
Impossible days are ten hours of screen time. Takeout for dinner (again). Scrubbing the baseboards and windowsills with a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser. Removing plastic knives from their plastic wrappers and storing them in a Ziplock bag in the silverware drawer because God said we wouldn’t know the day nor hour, and what if we need them when the apocalypse comes?