There are whole, green leaves on the trees outside my window that were not there yesterday. The grass in the yard has grown overnight, bright and tall.
I feel better. The kind of better that I can own, I can admit. The kind that doesn’t evaporate in the heat of saying it out loud. The kind that reminds me that my clock has moved so differently, and only weeks have passed, not months, and no one has noticed but me. The kind that lets my life forgive me as easily as spring forgives winter, and move on.