Once a favorite conversation piece, br now something more like a disease. br br A weathervane sings, a wind chime clangs. br It’s December, only a slight silver breeze, br br but already I’m imagining the tangled br metal of cars, birds falling from the trees. br br My therapist says fear is normal, br that it’s simply a matter of degrees, br br the brain has an internal mechanism, br she says, a switch that flicks on and off with ease. br br I imagine a kind of silver machine br in my brain, humming like a hive of bees, br br fear hopping from synapse to synapse br like some sort of electric, Post-modern flea. br br Each day I swallow my grief like a pill, br ignore my therapist’s advice, my wife’s pleas. br br I wait for the sky to fall, longing for the days br when wind was only wind, trees only trees.