I sometimes wonder if I could live, at least for a day, a sort of slow-motion life, like so many things I see around me. The flowers in Delycia’s garden, for instance, grow so slowly in a day’s time no one notices it, and clouds cross the sky some days as slowly as dawn goes gradually across to darkness. Maybe I could make the bed in the morning somewhat the way flowers grow, setting out the sheets and straightening the bedspread with purposefulness. Perhaps I could wash the dishes the way clouds carry themselves, sort of floating through the job, unhurriedly and gracefully going from glasses to cups to plates. Maybe I could even do my daily writing in a similar way, setting down the words little by little and lovingly, taking my time, making a paragraph as patiently as birds set sticks in their perfect places for a nest. It would be a way to live luxuriously, at least for a day, letting myself move like the nearby Mystic River, restfully and with perfect ease.