For a shepherd’s pie in the oven to warm all the way up to piping hot.
For the trip to far-off lands of heritage and history you always said you’d take, and finally do.
For the luscious words to be printed onto a cut-out mess of fibers, sewn together and glued to a hard plank on the edges, those luscious words you wrote.
For a present you knew was hidden in the fourth drawer down in the basement dresser filled with neglected odds ‘n ends, but you decided not to snoop at, because the surprise on the morning celebrating your birth is worth it.
For the numbers to tick slowly upward in that bank account you’ve called “Our Future Home.”
For a thick, letter-sized envelope to come in the mail, enclosing and cradling magical words of invitation and acceptance.
For your muscles to s’habituer, get used to those motions you make over and over again and perfect to the point of purest efficiency.
For the life-giving rains to come.
For the sun to break through the clouds dumping deadly monsoons.
For the bombs to stop falling.
For the lights to dim.
For the concert to start.
For life to begin. Or not.
(Careful now. You can’t be passive about everything.)