Gratitude is a thing I’m learning. Like you learn that you can write something different about the same window everyday if you sit behind it enough. Like you learn how so much depends upon autonomy. Like you learn to realise that the day when you are free to walk to the hairdressers and undo four months of split ends will be glorious in the abundance of its opportunity.
Gratitude is something that you discover your capacity for when you fumble the strings for the balloons you scarcely knew you were grasping. Like climate change. Like lies. Gratitude and fulfilment are inversely proportional. When one is swollen the other can normally be found curled in the corner like a wingless child.
My osprey hasn’t flown for three months; I found her wings rolled up under the doctor’s desk last week. So Gratitude must be all that remains with which to fill my house arrest.
I am grateful for: A broken piece of sky that clatters into the kitchen on sunny evenings, spun gold growing on the hazel tree across the road, finding ways to keep the sand from displacing the air in my lungs.