Lately (A Covid Memoir)

I have grown into a total softie. One cute video about Christmas took me to a series – a top ten sappiest videos. Nine of these featured old people. I am [sometimes] an old person myself, when I choose to be one. In my head I’m still young enoIugh to leap small buildings with the help of a trebuchet…

What is it about sentiment to make it so satisfying even as I tell myself, “Turn that off! Do something productive!”

I’ve done so much productive in my life. Perhaps it’s time to not do this anymore. But then where would I be? Right here, just not doing.

The plague taught me how to sit/stay, where to scavenge for books, how much it takes to live both with & without that which makes me human. My heart field extends 6′ – funny that’s the exact number of feet I was mandated to stay away from others. As though I don’t need that closeness or the vital energy I absorb just being in someone’s energy field. I never believed this would “get me” & still don’t, even as masked friends approach & extend their elbow. Elbows are uniquely inhospitable insofar as touch, yeh? Why in the name of heaven should elbow to elbow be even in the same realm as touch? Of all the motions to substitute for a hug, this mocks one & all. As an oldie who’s lived alone since 1999 & many years single between relationships, no one will ever convince me that will hold water.

This cat loves to be touched but also wants to keep her distance. No so long ago, she lived in a beach buggy in my neighbor’s yard, so she’s still a bit shy. She may never be a cuddler, but I opened the door & chanced love to enfold us even so.

I spend much of my day & night rising to let her out, & again to let her in. I don’t mind it. If the only one left to please is the cat, it still overbears treating myself alone. Don’t doubt me here, anyone. I have tested the ropes in this ring; I know whereof I speak, as it applies to this self. I think she would do the same for me. It was nice being responsible only to the cat.

When the new life comes in & we recognize it, there won’t be an elbow in sight. I am old enough to dream the next world into being & hold myself accountable to be worthy of entry.

When I sigh lately, it comes out with a small catch, almost a sob at the bottom of the breath. Grief resides in the lungs. I have nothing about which to grieve. What the hell’s my matter? Mirrors have little meaningful to say & I’m not listening anyway.

And I tire of myself quickly when I start to get comfy in the dark.