Every day I eat something I’m never going to eat again. This is my “swan song,” I say. And I go off my diet to splurge on a last piece or a last time or a lost moment.
The next day, I do it all over again. I choose something else that I intend to eat just this once and then avoid for the rest of my life… or at least until the scale drops.
If a swan song is supposed to be the one last time, then my swan is singing the longest, most protracted aria imaginable. Every time I think it’s dead, it pops up for another verse; my Camille of a swan just won’t shut up.
Somehow, I’ve landed in the middle of an infinite flock of swans. Those flocking swans are all around me. And it occurs to me that if every swan gets one last song, the music will never stop.