Now, as we wrestle our grim disease...

Look what I hold, behold, in my hands!  Wonderous.  Joy.  We’ve travelled up moist and darkened autoroads for this, this wonder that is man. 

It is slowly forming the coolest, sweetest drips.  Rivuleting down the creeks between my fingers.  A coolness I have never quite known.  When first I held her, my mouth rushed to taste and crunch and reel back from her.  My face turned quickly to my left to smile and beam in the direction of my laughing, buffling friends.  We are overwrought; we are joy. 

What is this that I hold here?  Summer’s never spoken like this.  Her cooling streams were threats, not treats.  She sheds a tear, losing her last bit of power.  

But, this, this power of ours.  Oh, what a wonder.  Let me never forget this.  Let me never become used to this.  Let me always throw my head around in simple glee at this.  Let me always ask, What, what is this?

But, already, all ready, I notice my smile’s faint smugness.  I look back at our automobile, and I know I will forget this too.  

Perhaps more than anything, Summer cries for this.  Cries for us.

In her tears, I hear faint askings:  When is the last time you stopped short?  Fallen on your face at the turn between your breaths?  For that too is a wonder.  I beseech you:  remember this.  Each step is a laying down of meaning.  How will you shape it?  Or, be you a pile of mere flesh? 

But, I make retort:  Perhaps this, this possibility, marks the greatest wonder of all:  We, the creatures who make routine out of everything once wonderful. 

Yes or no.  Water or tears.  Wonder wears wearied paths between your fingers and mine.