There is little between me and the sunshine but for paned glass and a fly buzzing loudly. The door is open and the sweet sound of birds singing spins forever in the foyer with the songs of Hoagy Carmichael and a piano gently swinging. It is spring in a melody and with it the promise of warmth upon skin grown cold from too much life and the constant living of it.
There will be hardships ahead and the wakes that we are leaving. The sun will shine, the fly will buzz, and Dickinson will always be there dying. At what point do we note it, and when do we walk on by? Will the warmth find me here, stuck beneath a doorway?
There are stages to everything, and all the world knows it—the linger of grief, a book not selling, a house on the mend, and a body far from mending. We vary in each and we bend to accommodate the other. It is as formal as a ball and as loose as a grasp on anything. Yet the seasons move forward, and they flaunt their wares like trinkets in the marketplace. I am looking out the window at something bright and shining, and I am fumbling for my wallet.
There was a refrain of muted horn and distant humming blowing softly through the shadows. It caught me in spirals both coming and going, and many nights I floated there upon wind and breath not sure if I was flying or falling, or whether it ever really mattered. And yet we are surviving, despite the fact that I have accepted the promise of fear like so many pending turns upon a dance card. I have never known more reasons for the worry, but it is spring, and I cannot get past the possibilities and the guilt of being happy. Perhaps tomorrow the door will open slightly wider, and the world a little more so.