As we begin our descent toward the one year mark of the pandemic reaching our shores, I feel an eternal exhaustion in my bones. My movements often feel creaky as I move about the house. Frost covers the morning window panes as my sweater makes a shrill squeaking noise across the glass. My breath fogs the pane. I draw a heart, tracing with one index finger as I did when I was a child and supposed to know better.
I am grateful for the security and sanctuary of this house, a home. It is a curious thing then, that I also feel sorry for this house. We are all waiting right now. Waiting for the vaccine. Waiting for our turn to roll up our sleeve. We are waiting during quarantines and strict isolations. We are waiting for spouses to come and go, and although we wish they did not leave, somewhere the back of my mind is awaiting that also.
This is a good house. But there are moments that by nature of the situation it feels like a fortress that needs to be defended. Against germs. Against hate. Against the snow now piling on the lawn. A prison sometimes when I consider that I could just take my car and go...where? I have what I need; I need what I have, and it is frightening to consider the ramifications of one adventure. How that might assail the house. So I sit, I wait, I watch the snow and know that soon I will see the headlights of my husband coming home.
Prepare, don't panic,
-Allison
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