When I look upon a calendar, I like to lavishly flip through all the quaint title numbers and pages, seeing each holiday zoom by, fast-forwarding the years I have inhabited this mortal plane.

  Birthdays, special events, graduations, and so much more happen year-round, yet; there isn't usually a happy squeal, a moment of anticipation cut short, the sensation of a bitter pill to swallow.

  Calendars are not meant for keepsakes, yet they represent all the moments we have lived through all 365 days of love, hate, depression, fury, etc.

  There are curled pages with enigmatic stains from water damage, leeching off a weary magnet to keep everything from decomposing. The staples just serve as decoration as the magnet slowly inches closer to its impending doom with every terrific Tuesday and miserable Monday.

  Stolen story; please report.

  One day that magnet with clink to the ground and my calendar that has served me for year upon end shall fall.

  There will be no reminders of birthdays, those lost friend meetups due to rain checks, and my late arrivals due to my desire to never face the real world.

  Maybe we are all like those scratched-up magnets, trying to hold the weight of the world as we slowly lose our domains, our atoms and little pieces of us that give a purpose to life.

  The fridge is our past, present, and future, a sleek wall, extending to infinity and beyond, crusted over with diplomas, awards, family and friends, and such vivid photography.

  However, we never take the time to reminisce upon these moments for we just look at the date, the era, the plans, and the love we hope to put forth, on those crinkling dry leaves of paper.

  But what happens if that magnet tumbles to the floor, papers, events, and plans scattering like autumn leaves onto a desolate, uneventful tile-floor?

  What would happen if that magnet threw itself from the fridge to the void below?