You feel vulnerable around me.
And then, of course, tomorrow came.
We do not have to feel the slice of a knife, or see a ghost of a smile, to become aware of the presence of change in the air.
It can come unbidden – silently sneaking up from behind you, subtly tapping you on your shoulder and quickly dropping a whole bag of surprises on you – before making the swiftest getaway no Olympic athlete will ever match.
Or you could see it coming from a mile away – first the faraway wisps of smoke in the air from behind the towering trees, next the faint rumblings akin that of a hungry stomach’s, then the increasing yet persisting tremors under your feet – and finally the offending train comes into plain view, a sight not so easily ignored.
How do you embrace change?
Let it not mow you over like a sack of tomatoes to be served with a dish of mashed potatoes?
Let it not bully you into stepping over a precarious ledge and plunging to your untimely death?
Let it not deceive you into expecting only the worst, with your hopes all vanished and burst?
Oh, how, indeed.