Some days, you wake up, and you’re just falling all over yourself in love with the world. The sky ahead of the sun rising is the most particular shade of purple, the shade that just happens to be your favorite, a dusky lilac you can almost smell. There’s a brilliant flash of bluejay, a streak of scarlet cardinal, a crow and a dove carrying on a conversation in the trees high above your head, branches that are still bare shush-shushing with the wind. Your head is full of inspiration — a series of poems writing themselves every time you glance their way, the fullness of a story half-realized — and you can feel the richness of them building up in your blood, a fever behind your brow. You are a teller of tales and a dispenser of hard-won wisdom, and for a day, for even an hour, you take up the mantle of wise-woman and marvel at it, revel in it, content within its confines. Long fingers of sunlight pull the greyness from the air and there’s a tell-tale tang of salt when you lick your lips, a promise of the endless heat that summer comes bearing after a too short spring. The children wake up warm, soft and pliable; in still heavily lidded eyes, the twinkle of a good night’s sleep is seen, and unusually good cheer rounds out the morning. There are the scratchy good-bye kisses you love, and lingering glances at his departing back — you spend a not insignificant portion of the afternoon daydreaming about holding his hand, fingers intertwined in a sustainable root system made up of the two of you, thumb strokes down the length of a lifeline. Some days, you wake up, and the world is falling all over itself in love with you.