Across the land this morning, people are awakening to find that something feels...different. As they step outside to fetch their morning paper, they notice the air feels cleaner, somehow. Lighter. Easier to breathe.
The life-giving heat from the sun embraces the body, wrapping its warm tendrils of hazy yellow light tenderly around you in a gentle morning hug. There is no bad news in the paper today, or if there is, you don't notice it. The front section is filled with stories of puppy Labradors rescuing children from the lake and inexplicable upturns in the economy. The obituary page is empty.
The welcoming aroma from the Folgers crystals fills the house like a gentle "good morning" from the heavens. A happy tune fills your head, and you whistle it jauntily to yourself on the way to your fulfilling job.
Wives and husbands make sweet, delicate love, some for the first time in years. Barren women feel a strangle tickling in their uteri. Impotent men achieve impressive erections without the help of prescription medication. Parents keep their children home from school for the day, feeding them sugary cereals and dreamily promising them future trips to amusement parks.
In this springtime of our hearts, we lift our heads as one and look to the piercing blue sky, unsure of our direction but clear that it's the right one. In this resurrection of hope, this glorious rebirth of youth, we do not know ourselves any better but we love ourselves completely and without hesitation.
Babies born on this day will always feel special, as if they are destined for some greater realm, though they will never truly understand why. Fetuses with Down Syndrome will be born healthy. Today, leaders of men are born. The cross is in the ballpark.
Meanwhile, in an unholy land to the northeast, thunder clouds gather on the harbor. Lightning crackles but doesn't yet reach ground. A sudden chill assaults a city, and its denizens must dig their winter coats out of storage. The sickly odor of death creeps through the streets, infecting every alleyway with its swift poison. The beer in the Samuel Adams brewery goes stale, all at once and with no warning or explanation.
The dark lords of this unholy land gather in a secret meeting high above the crumbling tunnels and bridges. Cigars are smoked and theories are whispered, but no resolution is reached. They flee helplessly to the west, foolishly trying to outrun a power that knows no earthly bounds. A reckoning is upon this land. Why deny the obvious child?
Seven hours, thirty-six minutes, forty-eight seconds...