How It Is Now

Six a.m. Subtle vibrations on her left wrist telling her to get a move on. It's time.
Again. Trackers track and it's tracking her sleep. Heart rate. How much she moves in her sleep.
A gentle thrumming that wakes her up in stages. Articulations. An arm here, then her neck. A deep, relentless ache that catches in her throat every time she turns her head. It's not the pillow, not at this point.
Day what, 21, no, 23.  Another 78 to go. Something like that.

Although there's no reason to get up. Not now, not really. The cat can wait, or will wait, unless she figures out how to open the bag of kibble on her own. Give her time.
Time. Never has she been more aware of time. Pace and space and marking things off with incremental shifts of a second hand. Her phone quacks every two hours to remind her to get up.
GET UP.
Move, drink some water. Breathe. Don't check the clock. What's it matter, there's nowhere to be, no rehearsal or gig or appointment or client or errand or date or responsibility other than to just be here, now. Now. Still now. And now.
Isolated.
Alone.
Quarantined.

She turns on the computer, checks her phone, feels her neck seize and catches herself not breathing.
Well, that didn't take long.
She puts on an album, an actual vinyl lp. Drops it onto a crappy pseudo-vintage-styled portable record player. Complete with bluetooth speakers.  Cognitive dissonance. 
Coffee, that'll help. Water.
Ok, feed the cat.
There's a running list of groceries and necessities, of tasks, things to be done.
Started. Created. Accomplished. Completed. Achieved.
None of it makes sense anymore.
Give it time, they say. It's trauma, grief.
Gotta do more, gotta be more, you simply lack discipline.
If you have all of this time, why aren't you...fill in the blanks.
Day 21, no, 23.
Better get used to it.
At least you have a home. At least you're on your own.
It will be close to 100 days without any human contact.
Breathe.

The sun is up and out, taunting her with it's freedom and wide ranging rays. Sweeping gloriously across huge swaths of the city, the entire country, the whole of the land.
She takes 5 steps from her bedroom to the espresso maker, flicks on the switch, leans against the cheap laminate counter top.
Burble, burble, hiss. Burble, burble, hiss.
The cat winds her way through her legs, bleating like an angry goat for food.
Today she starts with coffee.
And water.
Then feed the cat.
Coffee.
Water.
Feed the cat.

Comments

  1. UnknownApril 11, 2020 at 6:50 PM

    This is such a good depiction of this strange time for those who live alone...

    ReplyDelete

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