I’d like to tell you how sure I am as though things possess certainty, as though I have learned to surrender. The walls between my sadness and the world’s sadness are thinner than before. I’ve taken to watching the wedge of sky and grass outside my window. How between the sun breaking day and the moon closing night, I have forgotten about all kinds of light. How it looks in and suggests, it is time for a walk.
And soon, tendrils and blooms will find their way across this wall, the empty sidewalks, even the dandelions that will refuse to pull back from the composed lawn. I want to tell you of the wings we’re growing now, just as deeply as the roots that must have chosen by now, just waiting. I want to remember how some things have less to do with weight, than lightness, just as I’m starting to catch this murmuring of birdsong. That this day exact has little to do with what I make use of, but what I am elated by. That I will never forget what it is like to ache for a sprawl of ocean or the hot metallic scent of wandering a city.
And the way that I will hobble when I get to greet everything that has drawn inwards. For now, I have the frost holding up the brittle grass and branches, just beginning to soften. For now, I can make use of the light emptying in my room. It can only begin to describe everything I want to hold, once my windows are open.