I awoke from a nap to find Life beside the bed, beating my chest like a child on Christmas morning. This happy violence resurrected my cells, convinced me I’d somehow given birth to my own flesh and bone, and then Life’s nimble hands led the charge, and we were outside, walking and eating and taking forced-perspective photos of us licking cloud plumes like they were ice cream cones, melting for joy. Life went missing during our game of hide and seek, the little devil, so I plunged into my chest, where Life’s hand had bruised my heart, and I planted the feeling beside an overgrown rock wall ten minutes drive from my cottage. I’m not worried about Life: She knows the way back to me, and mornings here are bright and clear — clear enough to catch her footsteps before they fall. 


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