For a day, I am confined to bed. Every step on the creaking wood floor sets off a vertigo without explanation, it owns your body and you've nothing to do but relent. There's some sort of lesson in there, but you are too far gone to read it.
The day after illness is always a gift. Bright sunshine beams down the east-facing streets of Brooklyn, ice floes lapping the little beach at the edge of the neighborhood. I take every step in full pleasure, indulging in the way the light charges my skin, the way the cool air soothes my brow, the way a body was meant to stretch and exert. The gift lies in renewed potential, in the feeling of blank slates and white pages. It is not lost on you.
The sun shines, the world begins.
You may as well do
the same.
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