After a decade of darkness, my lifeline of hope dwindled to a thread of flickering light. Taunting me as it danced about my head. Dodging my grasp like a wisp of smoke—like smoke and mirrors.
And now? I dared not hope for it. For this. For this is what life is made of. Picking strawberries from an acre of green filled with little red dots. Feeling the breath of the ocean across my face. Catching a moment and holding it gingerly in my hands. Protecting it from the whorl of troubles past and worries future. It is fragile, after all. What debt of gratitude is mine? I owe it to the miracles of modern science, and the alchemy of grace.