Everything looks better in the morning, even me: My eyes seem to shine again, my legs don’t hurt as much, I see both the forest and the trees. Here on the porch, I can raise my face and swear I see heaven above the crown of the maple, on the other side of the early morning lingering haze. As the breeze ripples the newspaper and shakes the line of the coffee in my cup, it’s easy to feel hopeful, simple to cast aside the bleakness which weighs so heavily on me in darker hours. There’s life here, I’ve proof of that. Our old boy cat sleeps beneath a deck chair, and one of my geraniums has gotten a second, startling, vibrant growth of flowers. As the American flag waves from the front pillar, and the workers across the way start to haul ladders from the roof of their trucks, I lift my face to the kiss of the morning sun, and think that I, too, perhaps shall live.