The rabbit sits at the end of the driveway. The heron is back. The glass in the window has shattered.
Shards glint from wooden floorboards where the old man stands bewildered. Saturday. The middle of the afternoon.
Once they threw eggs. Impossible, they were told, to wash from brick. Such effort for a C minus.
An Escalade backs into the driveway, red lights blinking, then turns right and disappears from view. My breath scrambles into my throat and then back down again.
I am only beginning to realize how lucky I am.
Naturally this frightens me. I grow anxious and seek to control things. Pay attention to me. Look at me here. No, here.
I worry about my decisions. I wake up at 5am convinced I have ruined my teeth. What if I have a heart attack. I need to start flossing again.
Of course the best living I have done is in thrashing surrender and blind, begrudging faith.