Ruptured hyacinth guts smeared on the picnic table like that which was a beautiful thing, a purple bloom that reminds me of alluvial garlic heads before the green breath of early summer slaps everything into near-death; like that which is tattered, rag-edged, frayed beyond commitment by cat claws, tiger frenzy, snuffed out before its beauty has time to advertise itself; like that which is so much like living our normal lives – the birthdays and retirement parties, the funerals and vacations to crowded national parks, the medical diagnosis that bends your life back like a limbo artist under a crossbar engulfed in flames, the dreaded PTA meetings and office parties where too many people get drunk and say things that they almost always regret, the turbulent flights where oxygen masks fall from above announcing that this might be your last trip anywhere, dental visits where they tell you it isn’t going to hurt and all you will feel is a tiny stinging sensation, the face-to-face evaluation with a boss that you despise; like that which is similar to swimming to India; like that which is reminiscent of the tulips you gave your mother the day before she died.