She pauses and tilts her head,
the angle telegraphing something
part patronizing, part pity.

“Didn’t you think you’d died
last winter too?”

“This time feels different.”

“I know it does, sweetie.
But forever is a very long time.”

a twig with a bud encased in a drop of ice

I’m always pretty convinced I’ll never write again. I wonder if trees ever feel the same way.

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