A child gashes their foot on a sharp screw, unat­tended. Her mother com­pla­cent, absent. A man mis­in­ter­prets a word here and next thing you know, fur­niture raised over­head, glass tinkles as it’s smashed, drawers flung across a room leave gaping wounds in a chest  — and all I want to do is sit out­side in my sun­shine on the porch, laptop at the ready, gazing at newly flowered bottle brush because it’s spring equinox and life should be easier than this, should be softer than this, should be kinder, more hopeful, warmer. The tink­ling should be laughter not shat­tering on a blue day sky so bright as this one, on a golden grateful shine so aching as this one but it isn’t and my straw­ber­ries are dying and the weeds are over­grown and I don’t know if a spring clean is going to be enough to fix all of it this time.