I’ve driven into Spring, but I don’t remember Winter. I’ve been met with still nights that would be romantic if I had someone for them to be romantic with, clear skies, familiar stars forming the same constellations they had the year I was born and every year following. I’m immersed in pastel printed dresses, gold strappy sandals in all the store windows, resurrected flowers. Yes, Spring is here, loud and clear. But, I have to say, it feels a little forced.
I watch her frail body twitch like a volcano, nearing an eruption. Her stomach looks like it is caving in on itself.
“I’m not suicidal,” she says. “But I’m terrified to be left alone with myself like this.”
What can I say? I’m terrified too.
“Please,” she says, reaching her bony arm toward me. “Don’t leave until you absolutely have to.”
So, I stay. I watch her restless sleep. I stare out the window at the life outside, the blossoming, the thriving, the growth, the lemon sky, the obviousness of the season, the things that make me feel so happy to be so alive.
She sits up because she’s uncomfortable lying down, then stands because she’s uncomfortable sitting.
“I’m not really a fighter,” she says with her back to me so she doesn’t have to gauge my response.
“I know,” I tell her.
“Like if I were in one of those The-Universe-is-coming-to-an-end movies, I wouldn’t fight. I’d just let it happen. I don’t want to be a hero.”
She’s exhausted from talking. She climbs back into bed knocking something off the nightstand.
I go over to pick it up. Outside, I see the sun preparing to pass the baton to the moon. Another Spring day is winding down.