I came home yesterday to find this four-pack of toothpaste on the kitchen table, alongside the padded envelope it came in. My husband explained that local stores didn’t carry this particular one that he likes and so he ordered it online, and this is how it came, in a four-pack. These are not small tubes.

“That is the most optimistic thing I’ve seen in a long time,” I declared.

“You mean like it assumes that I’ll live that long?” He asked, adding “or that if I do, I’ll still have teeth by then?”

“Yes, and that the country will last that long, and the planet, for that matter, and that even if we somehow hang on, we’ll be thinking about toothpaste.”

He was unmoved, and went to squirrel away his supply in the bathroom closet.

I realized how pessimistic I am. It is there under layers of denial, fear, anger and numbness. It is there under a spunky veneer of carrying on and doing normal things, like planting tulip bulbs for seasons to come, freezing leftover green chile stew for next winter, mentoring a young person for a bright future, renewing a library card, having coffee with a friend, going to a grandchild’s graduation from high school. These are things I never questioned. They are what we do in normal times when we assume the future, although unknown, will be more or less what we’ve experienced to date. But now, I am aware that in each of these things there is fragility and uncertainty. I am wistful, anticipating such political, economic and climatic upheaval that the ordinary will be threatened and may not survive. I’m filled with nostalgia for what I still have but may lose in the months and years to come.

And, so I celebrate my husband and his more-than-a-lifetime supply of toothpaste. Let’s go for it. Along with my premature nostalgia and forecasts of doom, let’s imagine that yes, those tulips will come up in a sunny, peaceful community; and yes, we will thaw out that stew and remember a springtime of fear that is now past; and yes, my young mentee will be marching ahead, boldly on a career path that will be good for her and for all of us; and yes, the doors of the library will still open at 9 and close at 6; and yes, I will have coffee with a friend who chose not to move to Canada; and yes, that grandchild will be finding herself, just as I did, with a long road of opportunity and challenge ahead.  

The future is unknown, but let’s give optimism a chance.