The lime green leaf buds are everywhere. I’m cycling in the sunshine with my legs bared (both for the first time this year) on a wide street normally made narrow by traffic. There are pale pinks and brighter pinks, and the birdsong is loud and constant.
And then, at the intersection, I hear a siren – it’s farther down the street, but it’s coming fast. And then another one, trying to get someone from danger, or else get them to safety. I remember that this isn’t exactly New York. It’s purgatory. Some of us are balanced between the possibility of heaven (less pollution, less commuting, more sleep) and the possibility of hell (job loss, sickness, death). Some of us have already been pushed by Covid-19 into experiencing the latter.
Sitting on the fulcrum of this strange seesaw, I see my privilege. A one-bedroom apartment all to myself. A small kingdom to tidy and bleach every day. No one to fight with about whether or not to wash the vegetables. No one sitting on the toilet when you need to use the shower. But having no one to cook for also means having no one to share your food with. I haven’t hugged anyone for 50 days.
Without the smell of someone else, without the sounds of their footsteps, their typing, their snoring (they always swear they never snore, even though I’m the only conscious witness), I’ve noticed that my other senses have become heightened. The yellow of the lemons feels flamboyant, the satin of these petals on the pad of my thumb. I notice the ache of my limbs that don’t move as far as they want each day. For the first time in a long time, I’m taking note.
I draw every day. I think that if I can keep on working, I can stay where I am in the balance, that I won’t slip with the less fortunate into sickness and neither will my loved ones. Of course, that’s a delusion but those are easier to maintain when you live by yourself.
