The neighborhood is beginning to simmer, like a long-dormant volcano. Seismic energy erupts through the fissures of society here on Brady Street as the sun shines and the temperatures warm. Children pour out of houses onto trampolines. Neighbors emerge without coats on trash day, and we get to exchange more hellos. It’s easier to park cars along the street because you don’t have to work around the snow piles that never got removed. The rumblings of spring have begun.
I may be having an identity crisis. But as I listen to the suffering of the wide world, I realize how blessed I am. I’m not in the hospital for a self-inflicted wound. My house didn’t just burn down. My husband didn’t just leave me. I didn’t fall and break a bone and lay on the floor for 18 hours before someone found me.