The days when the flower pot shatters because a gust of wind blows too strongly, and I am left with dirt and ceramic at my feet, my orchids gone, I collect the shattered pot in the palm of my hand, avoiding the sharp edges.
I think about the Frenchman serving tables, carrying dirty, porcelain, holding the remnants of a meal in his arms. When they dropped and everyone turned as if they never heard glass shatter or that shattered glass meant the end of the world.
Remember what he said. As he bent over to pick up the big pieces, avoiding the sharp edges. La vie est anti-fragile.
It brings itself back together, like skin, suturing all its wounds.
Yet I still try to escape things I can’t see, as if you can lose everything to air.