Interlude

From three days ago. I’m still COVIDy. My hearing’s been off since Spring allergies came along.

It’s foggy and misty today. I could tell you that blindfolded. You can hear this kind of day before you see it.

They’re quieter. You don’t hear sirens in some other neighborhood. Or music coming from open windows. Or conversations down at the bodega.

All you hear is the delivery truck downstairs opening up. Tires shedding water. Hydraulic breaks hissing. Planes overhead roaring on their way to LaGuardia. Maybe one lone bird cheeping in a tree.

You wake up a little slower. Not even later. Just slower because the sun that shines into your east facing windows on clear days is diffused by so many particles of water hovering gently overhead.

And today, it’s not only quiet, but there are no smells. Not because of outside world, but the one inside. The one in which a tiny virus has taken hold temporarily and humbled you. Your lemon ginger tea has become spicy water. Your peanut butter and cherry jam on whole grain toast is sweet, sticky, smooth, rough, crunchy.

You can intuit the rest. The sunlight. The taste of peanuts. All that is missing today because you’ve had it before so many times you’ve lost count. Today is not for lamenting what isn’t there. It’s a day inside made more bearable by an inclimate outside. Not sorrowful. Not pitiable. But soft. Like an interlude. Or a dream.

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