I tested positive, and felt it in every bone of my body, every muscle that ached and said, “No more,” every breath that caught and tightened my throat. Then Baby, her eyes weepy and her little chest constraining against my hands. Then Mister, our caretaker, the captain of this ship that seems to be sinking. But Boy, he outlasted us all. He played and played and couldn’t process the tired in all the rest of our eyes. The ignorant joy of being two.
students returned to the building, but they forgot to bring their souls. Maybe they don’t even know where those souls are any more… Are we turning them into robots, teaching them that just by showing up they will pass? But where is there any meaning to this foray into the new year? Who were these children a year ago, when words like “pandemic” and “coronavirus” were as novel as “social distancing” and “quarantine”? Who would these kids be now if this year had never happened to them? There is no point in asking. We are who we are now. There was never any other us that we could possibly turn out to be.
our new house turned into the money pit. I tried for a few weeks to convince myself it wasn’t so. But when we finally started to recover from the plague and then one wrong flush of the toilet sent water spilling into the basement…it feels like the money pit. It feels like we won’t ever live in the home we dreamed, but instead we will always be stuck living out of boxes, relying on plastic garbage bags to keep our lives together. barely. just barely.
2021 has disappointed. One month in, and I’m not hopeful for the next 11. How horrible to be so set on despair. How isolating to not trust anyone else’s encouragement, when they say that this will end. Tuesday it snowed. It snowed, and we were freed from our classes to return home. I made it over the mountain. One day I will tell you about this mountain. Its sheer sides and its deceptively hypnotic views. I took a three hour nap. And then while Mister managed dinner and bath, I went outside and shoveled. It was cathartic, to feel my body work, to take cold gasps of air deep to the bottom of my lungs, to watch my effort breed results. It felt good. And then the next day felt more hopeful. Like maybe this would be the day the plumbers arrived to say, “Yes, we can fix this,” and “No, we don’t need to reschedule it for a later time.” But that was not our Thursday. And that was not today. Today is Friday, and the new word is, “We’ll have to reschedule.” And the new old plan is back to the drawing board, with garbage bags at our side.
I understand, when I see my students and their tired faces and their inner eye rolls at my encouragement, “Next quarter can be different. Don’t give up.” I understand the art of giving up. It is not an act you can think of too deliberately. It is one that requires great commitment and even more brazen courage. It requires you to look a person–some authority figure, usually, or worse, your dearest loved one–and call them on their bullshit. Whether they realize it or not, whether they are willing to say it or not: it’s not getting better. It’s only getting harder.
I tell myself I shouldn’t put this into words, because if I voice it now I will not recover from this kind of thinking later. But I have to voice it. I have to write it. I am not okay. I am not okay, but I am starting to realize that doesn’t really matter. It doesn’t matter that people aren’t okay. It doesn’t matter that you’re struggling. Welcome to the same old same old that so many people have known for years. It doesn’t really matter that you’re not okay. Because you still have to show up. You still have to be here and do this job and feed Baby that bottle and give Boy that bath. You’re not okay? Well, you can’t disappear. You’re not okay? Well, this nap has to end now because life is beckoning you here. You’re not okay? Well, you still have to show up. So show up. Be here. Do this job. Feed your girl. Love that boy. And eventually (maybe?) the narrative will change.
a scribble of jo 