Her voice rolls over the garden wall, a sun shower of laughter follows, and that is the moment I realize she’s in love. For weeks now, her voice has drifted into my sheltered garden like a windblown seed. Only the liveliest notes drift over, and the smooth clarinet sounds soothe me so that my heart blossoms in reply. I’ve come to know her by that enchanting voice. But now this livelier sound of tinkling bells stirs me in a way that I thought I’d never feel again. The exhilaration of being in love.

I don’t know how long she’s lived in the neighboring narrow brownstone, ours two of many that line the street where each garden plot touches a shared high fence. The accident, a year ago now, put me in this wheelchair. They sent me home, ruined, to find what pleasure I could in the rare moments when the wretched pain retreats. The pills dull my former pleasures: a hearty leg of lamb, a tidy glass of scotch, the ocean current tugging at my legs, the delicate skin of another’s lips on me. Those sensory pleasures live only as memories now.

No! I must stop this daydream. It’s steering me back to a world I’ve lost completely. I detest that I cannot even stand to peer over the high fence for a glimpse of the entity that emits such beatific sounds – music and laughter – a thrilling hymn of joy. Who is with her that causes her voice to sprinkle stardust on my heart, too? The mere timbre of her voice would surely set my heart on fire if only those coos and tinkling bells were intended for me.