Welcome to the planet, here’s your first mango.

People like to say, “live each day like it were your last.”

But this advice sounds like a threat. Like being bullied into appreciating life.

Instead, why not live like each day is Day 1.

And then, eat your first mango. Because this is the most important thing.

Watch light fade between sunset and night like you don’t know what’ll come next.

Marvel at —the cadence of songs, sleek black cats, the plop of a fat raindrop, chocolate, the last scene of a film, the first sentence of a book, a spider web glinting in sunlight, moss, velvet, curls, the middle of cream biscuits, fountains, the scent of camphor, the timbre of a voice, a crunch, a squish, the crisp ends of fried things, the grip of a baby’s hand, the symmetry of flowers and the strangeness of tears.

Kiss like you’ve just found out what lips were meant for.

Test each swing in every park.

Pour tea in a long, thin stream and listen to it fall to bottom of your cup.

Feel —breeze, smooth chikoo seeds, a hand on your shoulder, déjà vu, fresh mint, the dull ache of a healing wound, wet mud, balls of yarn, someone else’s hand in your own, the beginning of a laugh rising up in your throat, cold glass against your warm cheek, a whisper in your ear, longing, warmth in winter, and obviously, love.

This is a proposal to feel the wholeness, roundness, and fullness from end to end of everything you once loved, like you’re discovering it for the first time.

Like it’s Day 1.