How strange to awake to the singing robins, to stay
in bed without worry of being late, to enjoy breakfast
in the backyard, the pool waterfall cascading over rocks
the only sound breaking the morning silence.
How strange to cook before lunch and eat in the kitchen
with my husband and son—a salad, an entrée, a dessert. No
more pre-cooked food in the office, re-warmed in the microwave,
gulped down while I answer emails watching the clock so as
not to be late for my next class.
How strange not having to drive or pay for gas every week. My
SUV must be thankful for its break from the burning sun of the
College parking lot, the melting of its plastic parts, from the heat
that makes it gasp when I start its engine for the way home to our
cool garage. The roaring roads are quiet; the sky shows off its
bluest hue, and a cleaner wind blows past the scudding clouds.
How strange to continue life despite all that is transpiring, to turn
to online work and school, to enjoy my family time, to walk
the dog, to exercise, while thousands of people die every day,
alone, neglected and untreated, while companies and businesses
are closing, discharging workers who can no longer sustain their
families, all uncertain of the prevention and time span of this
pandemic, as if we were unhuman, not vulnerable and scared.
How strange to remain untouched by a virus lurking everywhere,
awaiting the moment it will prey on my family, my friends, and me.