Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing.
Scout Finch in To Kill A Mockingbird
How can I appreciate something that is a constant, so predictable that it never registers in my consciousness until the moment it is rent asunder, as fragile as a web hanging heavy with evening frost?
Within that deprivation, with the realization that what I rely on for my very existence is no longer a given, suddenly it becomes the most precious thing of all.
For that ephemeral acceptance of my fragility, I am truly and forever grateful.