March. March. March. You whisper it to yourself like a promise, like it will bring the sprouts from the ground and the warmth to your breath. You stand at the ferry landing staring straight into the afternoon sunlight, feel your pale irises drink it in like a wanderer in the desert. I think we made it out alive, you say out loud into the space between your lungs, you know it's too soon, you know you need to knock on wood and spit in the street but you're brave now, you're stronger now than you've been in years, so much crumbles around you but you still have air in your lungs and as such you are already miles ahead of where you've been.
The first step is always to survive. If you've gotten that far, you're practically halfway there.
If you've gotten that far,
all you've left to do is
thrive.
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