In lieu of any new column ideas, I turn, as I often do, to my Notes app.
For whatever reason, whenever I’m suffering through a particularly severe bout of writer’s block, I open that specific app with the delusional belief that all the answers I need will be sitting there, perhaps already formatted into the perfect story, just waiting to be copied and pasted into a Google Doc.
What I am met with instead, is an unimaginable number of lists, unfinished and trailing at the ends, half-drafted texts I have yet to send, both professional and emotional, plans for three quarters of a productive day that I no doubt gave up on partway through, and groups of people I’ve been meaning to call back: my grandma, my sister, my teammate, my best friend.
There’s an art to the overwhelming nature of it all. Sure, it can be stressful to see the evidence of my inability to organize and plan splayed out so clearly in front of me, but more than that, it’s an indication of my future.
Each unfinished list is a promise of more to come. I wrap my pinky around notes titled “Lifelong Bucket List,” “Things to do in New York,” “Spring break plans,” and “How to have the most fun possible as a second-semester senior” like a swear.
I run my fingers through overdramatic words written in the middle of a harsh July night and an early morning in October. They echo my past experiences, my past selves, and they lack the finality of real punctuation. The space where a period should be is occupied by a half-dreamed future and a breath of excitement for what’s to come.
I whisper pre-planned greetings over school lunch, forming a pact with myself to call back at 2:45 p.m., a promise that will ultimately be lost to the familiar clamor of my day. It’s not that I don’t want to call back, I do, and I always, ultimately will.
But the art of missing calls is the art of privilege, the art of love, the art of security, and maybe a hint of the art of taking things for granted. When I miss a call and forget to call back, it is with the subconscious belief that the person will be there the next day when I have time to answer.
My sister may be in D.C., but she will always pick up by the fourth ring. My teammate might be busy, but she’ll still be at practice tomorrow to tell me the story in person anyway. My best friend, my grandma, my mom, my classmate: each missed call is proof of the assurance I have in my future, that I will not lose my people.
My Notes app contains evidence of the optimistic future I have built for myself, one full of plans I still get to make, people I still get to call, and goals I still get to achieve. Each unfinished note is a sign that my future, while forever slightly out of focus, is nonetheless brimming with light.
