You could look out your window at a time like this and be moved by a small bead of water on a tulip bud, by the earth, fresh turned and black in the small strip of garden beneath your hedge. And remember a time when it mattered, when the weight of your years in the world was a little bit less.
You could just walk away from any encounter with only a scar.
But now it’s all changed so that every meeting feels strained and temporary, small consolation for the loss of each passing day, for every moment lost, each kiss, each bruise each new idea gone‑‑a thousand times gone, before it was even tasted, and no new arrival, no shoot, no stem, no bud all beaded with April water can cancel that — balance against it, console you — among these shadows.
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