I hugged this week. Now that I can, when I meet someone haven’t been able to see or touch for over a year, I hug them like crazy – hold them and don’t let go. As I clutch my victim, I feel a year’s worth of love and touch radiate from bloodstream into theirs, almost a body-meld. It’s as if all the atoms moving between us carry the messages I want to deliver – I’ve missed you, we’ve been through so much this year, now it’s starting to feel better. I’ve been scared and so have you. I want you to know that I’m still here. I love you.
I spent most of the time between January and March in my house. I had a lot of consulting work, and I had a lot of school work. I had blessedly long weekends in which there were no plans, of course, because, pandemic. I couldn’t travel to see my beloved because I was not yet vaccinated and he was in school every day, co-mingling with dozens of young potential germ vectors.
So I nestled in and enjoyed the silence and stillness. Just me and the dog. We went for daily walks, even in the ice and cold, so I never felt imprisoned. The winter sun and its short slant poured into the back of my house in the mornings, and into the front of my house in the afternoons. I followed it throughout the day with my laptop and my books, settling into different spaces as its heat filtered through my window panes. By the end of each truncated day I was curled up on my favorite couch, reading and writing and just being.
I was alone but I wasn’t lonely. I was deeply embedded in the projects I had for my new school program and I was happy to have time to let the stories that I want to tell just steep for a while. I missed the sweet touch of my partner, of being able to roll over in the morning and feel his warmth infuse my body with a sense of wellbeing, but I knew that this was to be the final extended pandemic separation and that there was an end date. That made it not only bearable but tender and sweet, as we whispered and cooed sweet nothings to each other through our texts and spent Sunday afternoons reading chapters of Charlotte’s Web on the phone to each other. I could make a pun about how hearing each other’s voices read the words of a favorite, comforting book wove us together.
And yet, even in Charlotte’s Web there is death and loss and grief. It was a reminder of how it’s right there, at the door, always.
Recent Comments