We are a feather falling from the wing of a bird.
I don't know why it is given to us to be so mortal and to feel so much.
It is a cruel trick, and glorious.
Also, ageing, growing old, watching the body fraying at the edges.
The lingering pain in your left wrist joint you ignored for the last six months suddenly explodes and another chapter of the endless story begins. Call it Road to Ruin. Or better still: Not Fair.
No cycling. No cycling!
Not now, with the first magnolia and almond trees in bloom. You want to howl like a teenager.
You start walking and come home after two hours exhausted and with blisters on your feet. Triumphant. Foolish. Your wrist is by now a swollen throbbing red lump. You tie an ice pack around it and ignore it because you will not grow old, ever.
At least not in spring. Not this spring.
You watch a Belgian thriller with another ice pack dripping around your wrist and while the detectives run through thick summer forests shouting in French, you whisper to yourself, two weeks, maybe three, green canopy, flowers, asparagus, strawberries, butterflies, birdsong.