What do you write about when one of your oldest, dearest friends lies full of cancer in a hospital bed? The same thing you write about when your parents are dying, when you’re sick or confused or worn out. You write about the world around you.

It’s the second day of May. Roses are budding, birds are nesting, clematis is blooming. Last night, the first hummingbird of the season made its appearance. It’s a perfect spring morning.

Not perfect for everyone, of course, but at this moment, I feel its perfection. And I take comfort in describing it, parsing it, moving it from the real world onto the page.