Everything looks new this last week of spring rains: lime-bright Swedish ivy; ice plant, with its fat, light leaves. I’m too tired to step out of the car. All last night wind worried the screen door, banging it back and forth, and my dreams were full of fearful calculations: how long will the old furnace hold out, and who will love me when I break? You can’t eat color; you can’t put it in an envelope to the tax man, or the mechanic. But it was there to greet us in the morning when Makendra needed me to drive her to work. We listened to Nas rap on the radio about future generations and noticed how storms had washed the world clean for a minute. A million shades of green — chartreuse, forest, mint — you could never catalog them all, not if you spent a lifetime. What a beautiful, unfixable mess I’m in, with little idea how to cross this wide, wild water, or whose rough hands will pull me over.