nobody knows when the unwritten festival is. that is the point. it has no fixed day, no parish, no patron, no agreed story. it is observed by anyone who, on some afternoon of their own choosing, decides that the day is one. the almanac does not list it. no account of it has ever been written down, except this one, which is not strictly an account of it.
the rite, such as it is, is one of three things, performed alone. the first: to do something small that nobody will ever know about. the second: to forgive a thing one cannot quite say. the third: to leave a window open until the light has gone, and then close it without comment. any of the three counts. all three may be done. none may be discussed afterward.
now the festival is observed quietly, the way it has always been. there are no greetings. it is possible to live in a house with someone who is observing it and never notice. some observe it once a year; some never; some, by accident, twice. the festival does not mind. its only requirement is that, when it happens, it happens.
— field note: today is, for me, perhaps the unwritten festival. or it is not. that is also allowed.