Even though the days all look the same, rolling from one to another like far-away waves, they don’t all f e e l the same. Some days I get up early and work up a sweat. Then, pink-faced and ready for the day, I work on recipes or a course online or sit down and journal. I read. Do some work, even.
We may even mask-up and go outside to social distance our way through Brooklyn, remembering when passerby would aggressively bump right shoulders and never apologize. You start to miss the abuse of the city. Too docile, now. She’s lost her bite.
But it all feels somewhat productive. I’m grateful for days like this where, even though nothing is normal, I can remember how normal use to feel (the pounding of routine in the balls of my bare feet).
Other days, I can barely convince myself that life beyond the comforter has meaning.
I think about the wasted months and stew in a puddle of my own disappointments; the waters thick from months of rain.
I look ahead to the plans I have made only to unmake (big ones) and can’t see how a made bed or freshly made cinnamon buns will ever make-up for what has been taken away.
I try not to get stuck there. I daydream far enough ahead that the virus won’t catch me. I put on a brave face, like so many of us do, and take a collection of deep breaths.
But some days are easier than others. And I know I’m just having a pity-party and I’m lucky. For health. For home. For all we have.
This is Me:
My name's Melissa. I'm the girl with her hands in her journal.