The trundling of wheels is muffled, not by carpet, not by smooth surface, by grass.

I smell it before I feel the surface change beneath my wheels. It smells of summer, earthy, grassy, fresh, and yet it also smells of rain. It’s the kind of scent that washes over you, drives through every pore and makes you feel pure, cleansed.

And then I feel it. Warmth. It dances over my face, and I swear it’s peppering me with kisses of light.

I might not see it, I might not feel it beneath my feet, but sat in my wheelchair, face blindly turned toward the sky, I know it, this is the sun, and it’s shining, shining on me, on me.