I have perfect health for my entire life.

A whole life is a long thing to hold in one hand. Look at it from far enough away and it stops resembling a straight line and starts resembling weather — long settled spells, some storms, whole seasons that passed without anyone noting them down.

Health across that span is less a fixed condition than a long habit of repair: a body that kept turning up, kept mending, kept getting you as far as this particular morning. Whatever this month looks like, it sits inside something much larger and considerably more durable than itself.