As I walked to the library in the warm bubble of my coat,
between the cold foggy lamplight, there were no sharp corners, no chameleons, no fish. Sharp corners are hazardous and fish an intermediate. If you can make chameleons sprout by will, you're dreaming.
I hoped for a bounding white stag, which leads to reality, to at least blink across the corner of my vision.
I saw none of these, and I haven't replaced the chalk in my pocket.
Earlier,
We exchanged the common greetings, a hazardous task for us both.
"I'm getting stronger," I say, surprised at the manner of optimism in my own voice.
Do you know, I've died once already? Now, it can only make me stronger.
She hears it too.
"What?"
"It can't kill me, I'm getting stronger"
After so long, the disease is only in my lungs, which guard my heart. Daily, I cough it out, but still my heart is safe, unless it's also in my head, which renders judgment suspect.
"Oh,"
She pulls me in with her arms around my shoulders.
"I'm getting stronger," I protest ineffectively, without a change in voice.
"I know," she said,
not unlike a mother rocking a child waking from a bad dream.
"I know."
