Ever so slowly, I shed the disease and confront the possibility of optimism, and images of everything that can be fill my head.
Words that need to be written. Books awaiting to be read. People to leave and others to welcome. The selfishness of saying no to open the door to more interesting yeses. A beach in Thailand with Sue’s and my name gently written in the sand. Glenda Jackson on the stage just because I felt like it (and because Brexit made it cheap).
Hours and days and months to fill. Or not to fill.
Love to give and to receive.
Giving myself an emotional makeover – which I started with a haircut.
A whole week without saying sorry.
The fear locked in a closet, the key at my disposal, but it can gather dust, for all I care.
A life, my life, slightly re-jiggled: still full of potholes, like the roads of Los Angeles, but still in good enough condition to get me where I need to go.
Which, today, is right here: to me. The best gift.