It is suddenly very chilly and I feel in need of a fire to warm me. The slow, cool Spring offers a chance to shake the remnants of a cold, lonely winter.
I'm gritting my teeth. I quite forget how often I grit my teeth - the pressure of my worry forever clenched violently, every nerve a spasm of fear for what the next moment holds.
I hold my breath.
I've held my breath so long I've forgotten how to breathe.
Fear really does have a scent - it's the scent of yourself, so thick when you are suffocating, drowning, so crushed in upon yourself you can't smell anything else.
The smell of fear usually stinks.
Every cell tightly clinched against the anticipation of losing that moment, the mourning of it's expected loss already such a penetrating pain.
Our lives tightly clinch against that fear, so gripped in mourning the loss of that moment, we neglect to cheer the greatest victory.