All around the world we are falling apart and then coming together. You write to me that I am your little bird, that you will meet me in the woods or on some beach with no one around. You feel the aftershocks of the earthquake day after day. Yesterday when I said goodbye to my friend in the street, laundry turning in the dryer inside, a bee came over and stung me, the first bee sting ever in my whole long life. Not to mention flat tires, and peeing in the backyard because you can’t get into the house, and a litany of lyme disease and other possible downfalls. The swollen elbow and osteoporosis. The wanting to lift your grandchild but not being able because you are afraid your bones will break. Skin shedding, the old story. Life, death, these are such little things. Why are you the one I think of, the one who is distant. Being someone’s little bird made the whole day special, and all I saw were birds everywhere, dipping down and passing by, in flocks and singly. The vase of sunflowers on an abandoned bench in the woods, the swimming and swimming in that empty endless lake.