It’s not as though I was going on dates, gorging on the daily bread of sex, before the governor told us all to stay home. It’s not as if grandchildren piled into bed with me in the mornings, begging to visit the horses that live — oddly — past the edge of my apartment complex. In truth, I’d come home and drop my purse and keys, feed the cat, eat something myself, sink into the couch, and click on the TV. It’s not that I miss hugs (the phrase “I miss hugs” annoys me somehow). It’s that now, when students mute themselves, I can’t hear the always-late kid scrape his chair up to the table, can’t smell the egg and bagel that he unwraps; I can’t hear the kids’ pencils scratching the page, their hair falling into their eyes. It was all a form of touch. Kara arranging snacks for our staff meetings, Dez’s laugh, the clip of Jessica’s clogs heading out to walk her dog. And Seth, who is there like the earth itself. Am I writing a love letter to my workplace? My office is calm, painted green, and everyone has a key. I miss the breeze coming through the screen, the voices of students kicking a ball on the quad, the children running to the sno-cone truck to pick flavors. I’m alone in bed, reading. The spring wind shifts. I can almost hear buds opening. My mind’s on an edge. If I can’t walk toward someone, it might just crack.
This poem previously appeared in the anthology Viral Verses: Art in Exceptional Times. — Ed.
