One.
A daughter arranges sympathy cards on the mantle, changing places, angles, trying to make them fit. We’re sorry for your loss. With sympathy. Our thoughts are with you.
Thoughts, words, too many of them printed in store bought colors on grocery aisle cardstock, too many superficial, no matter how heartfelt they were intended to be.
All of them wrong.
There should have been something. Should have been closure.
There should have been a funeral.
Her father had wanted a funeral. He’d given her song requests, told her which relatives to force onto the dance floor, made her promise there would be strawberry pie. It should have been out in the sunshine, should have been healing, should have been together. Instead, his heart had stopped in a stark and lonely hospital, and they had all stayed in their homes, made tearful phone calls, emptied wine bottles by themselves in the dark.
There should have been a funeral.
And the cards look wrong on the mantle. She picks them up, one by one, to move somewhere else. Maybe in a different place, they won’t stand out like a sore.
This is not the right way to say goodbye.
Two.
The street is a collage of bittersweetness, brightly lit windows leaning on the frames of their dark and empty neighbors. It is no longer a ghost town, but a town painted in melancholy memories and emerging hopes. Some have died. But some, some have survived.
Behind a plexiglass barrier, an artist scans paint bottle barcodes, smile hidden behind a flower-speckled mask. Each customer makes her heart feel lighter. An old woman with joy-crinkled eyes picks out paint for her granddaughter's birthday. A teenager burrowed into a warm sweatshirt clutches a new sketchbook to his chest. A child reaches up, wanting to run their hands through a rainbow of vibrant colors, gaze caught by the tubes of glitter that glint like stars.
They enter, one by one or in twos and trees. They hesitate in doorways, clean their hands and then put those hands in their pockets. There’s a weariness here, a sadness, unspoken thoughts of all those that should be scanning bottles and stocking shelves, all those who instead have had to search and search for a job that will take them.
An unspoken understanding that some of these customers are the ones who have to search.
But they keep coming, despite it all. They continue to paint, continue to draw, continue to weave and fold and carve. As she drops change into another palm, the artist feels proud, knowing that nothing can stop these people from making art.
Three.
When the virus first hit, there was nowhere to wash their hands, nowhere to stay six feet apart, nowhere to get out of the cold. The signs on the street announcing safety protocols felt mocking, demanding things they didn’t have, and the world felt ripped open, stitches pulled apart, exposed.
When everyone ran away, some people had nowhere to run to.
A figure sits huddled in the folds of a gray down coat, leaning against a brick wall. It’s a little better now, with open businesses, with months of preparation. But the shelters are still a hotbed of fevers and coughs, the streets icy. In a world of evils, you pick the one you can handle best.
A bundle is tossed at their feet. Hand sanitizer, a clean mask. Someone sits, leaning against the wall a few yards away, slumped in their own bundle.
The folds of the gray coat shift as its owner nods gratefully. There is an understanding here. A silent one.
Neither of them has anywhere to run. So instead, they stay.
Four.
It takes a long time to set up the computers, to fix the microphones, to explain the steps. Minutes tick by. Cameras blur. One person calls in on their phone, someone else sits in their kitchen for optimized wifi. It’s chaotic, it’s frustrating, it’s a mess of voices and static and background noise.
And then, it’s working. A dozen faces on the same screen, smiling. Exchanging stories, laughing, showing off new haircuts, remembering old moments. Across thousands of miles of space, they seem to take a step closer. For a little while, their worlds contain a little more joy.
This family hasn’t been together for a long, long time. But tonight, this is enough.
Five.
Two people embrace.
It’s been days, weeks, months, been time that slipped in and out of counting, been empty and lonely and full of hope and promises and so, so much hurt. Everything stands, teetering; this moment could stay or come crashing down in another wave of locked doors. But all that matters is the now.
Hands, lips, tears, whispers, laughs, gently, finally, lungs now breathing the same air.
In a world without touch, their arms haven’t forgotten how to hold each other.
Six.
Pale blue masks, sanitizer, everything systematic. The nurse rolls up her sleeve, exposing the skin of her arm. She looks away as the needle goes in, pinching slightly, releasing the vaccine that has been so long anticipated into her body. So precious, so important, the holy grail of medicine.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
She stands up, rolls down her sleeve, walks out. The next person in line takes her place.
So simple. So small. It feels like, after all this time, it should have been more.
Seven.
A teenager squeezes his eyes closed, his hands shut, tries to find the right thoughts, but the right thoughts are slippery, loose, too thin to hold. He never thought he would be here. It doesn’t matter. He never thought it would happen like this. It doesn’t matter.
He stares at the video meeting’s link. He has fallen down, down until he wakes each morning with aching arms and a pounding heart, down until all he wants is to sleep and sleep and never have to dream. His eyelids are speckled red from tears, his future both too distant and too close.
He glances at the time. Two minutes late. He will be asked to spill out his insides, but he feels too empty to have anything to spill. He could shut the computer, walk away, hide.
But maybe this can help him heal.
Hands shaking, he clicks the link and begins the call.
The computer loads.
His therapist smiles when she sees him.
Eight.
A man sits at his kitchen counter, contemplating the calendar that hangs on the wall above a bowl of oranges. The pages are full of glossy photos of Venice and Paris, Tokyo and Rome, places he’s seen only as he’s flipped through the months while confined to his house. Today marks one year since he was first locked in his home, one year of worry and exhaustion and pain.
Should he celebrate?
He stares at this month’s photograph, at the beautiful domes of the Taj Mahal. He picks up an orange and begins to dig at the peel.
He’s been deliberating for a week now. Should he acknowledge the day? Or should he ignore it? It feels wrong to celebrate something that has caused so much hurt.
But no. He wouldn’t be celebrating the hurt, would he? No, he would be celebrating getting through it.
Decision made, he stands and digs out a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and the delicate wine glass he only uses for special occasions. Pop the cork, pour the drink, take a sip.
Celebration feels like defiance.
Nine.
The world is softening. The ground melts at the touch of the sun, letting seeds reach up and push green shoots through the transforming earth. Cold retreats, and the breeze, now warm, brings scents of mud and green and life.
A bird alights on a branch.
Water dances through a riverbed.
Something is changing.
Ten.
It’s not over. It will never be over, the same way a cut that leaves scars lacing your skin is never over, the same way a story is never over so long as it is told again and again. The end doesn’t come, and yet it keeps coming. It is not a moment. It is not a sudden release. It is step after step after step.
You wanted a day to mark the end, a final tally, a clean cut finish. You imagined the relief you would feel.
Instead, you open a document and begin to type.
One.
Two.
Three, four, five, six, seven.
No matter what you wanted, the numbers don’t stop; the steps taken, the moments, the words. They will never stop. They climb, rise, grow, stretching farther than you can see, the world climbing with them.
Far, far above, far beyond the sight of your eyes, they gently scrape the sky.
*Note: I wrote this as a sequel to another piece I wrote, Countdown, which is here: https://youngwritersproject.org/node/33472
A daughter arranges sympathy cards on the mantle, changing places, angles, trying to make them fit. We’re sorry for your loss. With sympathy. Our thoughts are with you.
Thoughts, words, too many of them printed in store bought colors on grocery aisle cardstock, too many superficial, no matter how heartfelt they were intended to be.
All of them wrong.
There should have been something. Should have been closure.
There should have been a funeral.
Her father had wanted a funeral. He’d given her song requests, told her which relatives to force onto the dance floor, made her promise there would be strawberry pie. It should have been out in the sunshine, should have been healing, should have been together. Instead, his heart had stopped in a stark and lonely hospital, and they had all stayed in their homes, made tearful phone calls, emptied wine bottles by themselves in the dark.
There should have been a funeral.
And the cards look wrong on the mantle. She picks them up, one by one, to move somewhere else. Maybe in a different place, they won’t stand out like a sore.
This is not the right way to say goodbye.
Two.
The street is a collage of bittersweetness, brightly lit windows leaning on the frames of their dark and empty neighbors. It is no longer a ghost town, but a town painted in melancholy memories and emerging hopes. Some have died. But some, some have survived.
Behind a plexiglass barrier, an artist scans paint bottle barcodes, smile hidden behind a flower-speckled mask. Each customer makes her heart feel lighter. An old woman with joy-crinkled eyes picks out paint for her granddaughter's birthday. A teenager burrowed into a warm sweatshirt clutches a new sketchbook to his chest. A child reaches up, wanting to run their hands through a rainbow of vibrant colors, gaze caught by the tubes of glitter that glint like stars.
They enter, one by one or in twos and trees. They hesitate in doorways, clean their hands and then put those hands in their pockets. There’s a weariness here, a sadness, unspoken thoughts of all those that should be scanning bottles and stocking shelves, all those who instead have had to search and search for a job that will take them.
An unspoken understanding that some of these customers are the ones who have to search.
But they keep coming, despite it all. They continue to paint, continue to draw, continue to weave and fold and carve. As she drops change into another palm, the artist feels proud, knowing that nothing can stop these people from making art.
Three.
When the virus first hit, there was nowhere to wash their hands, nowhere to stay six feet apart, nowhere to get out of the cold. The signs on the street announcing safety protocols felt mocking, demanding things they didn’t have, and the world felt ripped open, stitches pulled apart, exposed.
When everyone ran away, some people had nowhere to run to.
A figure sits huddled in the folds of a gray down coat, leaning against a brick wall. It’s a little better now, with open businesses, with months of preparation. But the shelters are still a hotbed of fevers and coughs, the streets icy. In a world of evils, you pick the one you can handle best.
A bundle is tossed at their feet. Hand sanitizer, a clean mask. Someone sits, leaning against the wall a few yards away, slumped in their own bundle.
The folds of the gray coat shift as its owner nods gratefully. There is an understanding here. A silent one.
Neither of them has anywhere to run. So instead, they stay.
Four.
It takes a long time to set up the computers, to fix the microphones, to explain the steps. Minutes tick by. Cameras blur. One person calls in on their phone, someone else sits in their kitchen for optimized wifi. It’s chaotic, it’s frustrating, it’s a mess of voices and static and background noise.
And then, it’s working. A dozen faces on the same screen, smiling. Exchanging stories, laughing, showing off new haircuts, remembering old moments. Across thousands of miles of space, they seem to take a step closer. For a little while, their worlds contain a little more joy.
This family hasn’t been together for a long, long time. But tonight, this is enough.
Five.
Two people embrace.
It’s been days, weeks, months, been time that slipped in and out of counting, been empty and lonely and full of hope and promises and so, so much hurt. Everything stands, teetering; this moment could stay or come crashing down in another wave of locked doors. But all that matters is the now.
Hands, lips, tears, whispers, laughs, gently, finally, lungs now breathing the same air.
In a world without touch, their arms haven’t forgotten how to hold each other.
Six.
Pale blue masks, sanitizer, everything systematic. The nurse rolls up her sleeve, exposing the skin of her arm. She looks away as the needle goes in, pinching slightly, releasing the vaccine that has been so long anticipated into her body. So precious, so important, the holy grail of medicine.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
She stands up, rolls down her sleeve, walks out. The next person in line takes her place.
So simple. So small. It feels like, after all this time, it should have been more.
Seven.
A teenager squeezes his eyes closed, his hands shut, tries to find the right thoughts, but the right thoughts are slippery, loose, too thin to hold. He never thought he would be here. It doesn’t matter. He never thought it would happen like this. It doesn’t matter.
He stares at the video meeting’s link. He has fallen down, down until he wakes each morning with aching arms and a pounding heart, down until all he wants is to sleep and sleep and never have to dream. His eyelids are speckled red from tears, his future both too distant and too close.
He glances at the time. Two minutes late. He will be asked to spill out his insides, but he feels too empty to have anything to spill. He could shut the computer, walk away, hide.
But maybe this can help him heal.
Hands shaking, he clicks the link and begins the call.
The computer loads.
His therapist smiles when she sees him.
Eight.
A man sits at his kitchen counter, contemplating the calendar that hangs on the wall above a bowl of oranges. The pages are full of glossy photos of Venice and Paris, Tokyo and Rome, places he’s seen only as he’s flipped through the months while confined to his house. Today marks one year since he was first locked in his home, one year of worry and exhaustion and pain.
Should he celebrate?
He stares at this month’s photograph, at the beautiful domes of the Taj Mahal. He picks up an orange and begins to dig at the peel.
He’s been deliberating for a week now. Should he acknowledge the day? Or should he ignore it? It feels wrong to celebrate something that has caused so much hurt.
But no. He wouldn’t be celebrating the hurt, would he? No, he would be celebrating getting through it.
Decision made, he stands and digs out a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and the delicate wine glass he only uses for special occasions. Pop the cork, pour the drink, take a sip.
Celebration feels like defiance.
Nine.
The world is softening. The ground melts at the touch of the sun, letting seeds reach up and push green shoots through the transforming earth. Cold retreats, and the breeze, now warm, brings scents of mud and green and life.
A bird alights on a branch.
Water dances through a riverbed.
Something is changing.
Ten.
It’s not over. It will never be over, the same way a cut that leaves scars lacing your skin is never over, the same way a story is never over so long as it is told again and again. The end doesn’t come, and yet it keeps coming. It is not a moment. It is not a sudden release. It is step after step after step.
You wanted a day to mark the end, a final tally, a clean cut finish. You imagined the relief you would feel.
Instead, you open a document and begin to type.
One.
Two.
Three, four, five, six, seven.
No matter what you wanted, the numbers don’t stop; the steps taken, the moments, the words. They will never stop. They climb, rise, grow, stretching farther than you can see, the world climbing with them.
Far, far above, far beyond the sight of your eyes, they gently scrape the sky.
*Note: I wrote this as a sequel to another piece I wrote, Countdown, which is here: https://youngwritersproject.org/node/33472
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