On a bitter day in April, a fair weather forecast and the promise that the world will soon erupt in green.
On a day of diagnosis, the word benign instead of malignant.
On a day when brilliant orange flames rage in Notre Dame cathedral, knowing that the four hundred worn stone steps, polished smooth from millions of pairs of feet ascending and descending the cramped spiral staircase over centuries, remain to be climbed once again.
On a day of loneliness, a gesture, or a song.
On a day of silence, a word.
That sense of heaviness, the tension of a clenched fist in my gut, my chest, my throat, that manifests in an anticlimactic trickle of tears.
Is this what it means to be human? A little salt water, a little hope.
We need so little, really.