Finally it has cooled off and the rain is coming down. Able now to imagine a world where I am not stuck to something, or slumped on the floor in front of the fan in a half-waking, dreamlike, fugue state, I sat up and found myself, scraped together some industry, and swept the rugs. I located my dusty stove and made a strange stew out of wrinkly vegetable drawer remainders. And of course I started about fifty-seven new projects, because I can operate my brain again now. Summer is delicious. I am lugubrious in the heat, almost a non-Newtonian fluid, practically wearing nothing but a sarong and flip-flops. Thoughts drift in and out, an icy drink melts slowly into a puddle, the wildflowers in my abandoned garden vibrate with bees. I slide my eyeballs painstakingly to one side, toward the tiny roar of a hummingbird, who comes up to the porch to investigate me, because I have lain so still, unblinking and dissolving, for so long that he thinks I may be some sort of plant material. I relish all this, and I dream tearfully of it during the long, desperate months of winter, when we cannot even get out the front door, but I have to say that I am fully restored now, all cells are sweat-purged of toxins or whatever, all bones are liquified to a summery-softness. Hummingbirds have been watched. I am done. Healed. Ready to move around again, and to leave a magazine on the kitchen table without having to later scrub away the layer of paper it leaves behind. This cool, fresh, clean air is making me cry with the mercy of it. Rain, rain, rain. Wash me.