During COVID, It Doesn’t Matter
It doesn’t matter that you showered two days ago
and can no longer tie your sweat pants
or your roots are longer than your front yard grass
and the toilet paper wasn’t replaced on the empty tube
even though you bought the huge bonus pack
or you need vanilla to add to your cookies,
the peanut butter kind with Hershey kisses in the middle,
just like your grandkids requested
or yoga isn’t motivating on your own mat
in your own living room, all by yourself
or you haven’t had a margarita and your marimba is gathering dust
or your tribes seem so far away
or you’ve played 300 hours of Wordscape
200 hours of Sudoku, while your writing sits untouched
just a mass of black scribbles on white daunting paper
threatening to disappear in the flash of a crash
only to reappear in bad dreams while you try to sleep
after doing nothing all day
bringing you up out of bed to start writing at 3AM
about adoption, autism, dreams lost
or you can’t stand to watch the White House briefings
sinister, portentous, bullying
Trying to understand how did this happen?
HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?
or the minorities and immigrants once again double-whammied
while the rich and famous get testing and treatment
MORE: See all of our Write On, Colorado entries and learn how to submit your own here.
It doesn’t matter how many
times you’ve let go if you’re still hanging on
or gods you’ve prayed to,
when you believe in them all
or how many burps you’ve stifled
in the presence of company
or apologized just to save the peace
or built treehouses that looked like shanties
that made you explode with joy
or almost peed your pants when first seeing a whale
and a moose
or cried when the crocuses popped up again
and fall colors brought you to your knees
and the smell of a baby’s neck intoxicated with innocence
or the squirrel took off with your wedding band
when you were sunbathing on the roof
or fell getting off the ski lift
and survived two car wrecks
It doesn’t matter how many babies you fostered
or patients you sat beside
or children you taught
or lovers you’ve lost or left behind
or money you’ve made
you aren’t immune from the virus.
Jo Leightner is marimba player, retired teacher and hospice unit coordinator who lives in Broomfield.