Euphoria

What is it that first alerts you to the change?

Is it the new soundscape, as you lie in bed, eyes still closed? Car tyres going mmrrrrmmmrrrr instead of shhhshhhshhh on the road outside. Feet going pit-pat instead of slip-slap past the window. No longer a constant glop, glop, glop, glop, on the windowsill, no brittle noise like sand being thrown on the glass. Instead, the sound of birdsong. The optimistic peep-a-reep of the bluetit, the anarchic robin.

Or is it the light, oblique and pale still but cautiously optimistic, that penetrates newly through the blinds?

You can’t quite believe it, as you rub your eyes and search around for your slippers. The week-long, heads-down, eye-stinging, bone-chilling, foot-soaking rain has ended. The skies have ripped open the dirty grey sheet that covered them, and so doing made the world below anew.

A glorious, forgetful, golden brightness drenches you on stepping out, chiding your doubt.