It’s finally spring. All we ever talk about is the weather, spanning from small talk to confessions, the inability to get out of the chair, to love someone, to leave the house, to be kind, to stand up straight. The weather makes the small and the large collapse into one; who we are is incidental and un-specific, as general as the way the sun sits in the sky and the temperature of the air. Below my window, the big tree has finally unfurled white cushioning blossoms and the sun rises earlier than I wake up. It illuminates the water towers and the small fine clouds like pencil drawings, lifting off the page, buoyant. It’s not that there is sunlight, but that the sunlight is different finally - winter sunlight is a joke at your expense, but now the light is offering to help, bringing better news against the onslaught of what you still haven’t finished yet.