People eventually know — as I know — this flaxen gift of life will slip. The spindly legs of a sick child or the bony, veined hands of old women remind us of breaking. But also that living moves when Gaia speaks. On a Sunday morning, fresh blooms go on an old grave where new tears fall. But the grief dwindles hours later against the slope of a partner’s body. Fingers arched, someone peels a layer off. And the citrus hangs like summer air. But it is not the fruit, or the granite tombstone, or the baby’s footprint, that prove…