All that remains: here in my afterlife as a 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know. |
To the plucky healthcare worker who spent half the night on our couch comforted by the felines now sleeping on blanket-wrapped legs and on the arm just above her head -- clouds obscure our horizon -- this morning. Two other truants -- still a-snooze with no plans to lift -- have internet-ordered paraphernalia (on the way), after I announced she's not my mother just one week before this day. Not my turn to cover her with flowers to bed, favorite chocolates or exquisite coffee blends -- it's up to you -- while she is still suffering, post-recovery from symptoms of a Covid19/SARSCoV-2, what have you, that lynched her as she performed obediently her newfound hospital duty (to get paid) -- forced her 18 days in a room on mattress on the floor -- -- shower curtain to divide her in our house her beloved laid waste -- attacked where she greeted ailing symptomatic sufferers of a potential deadly virus until one of them spilled on the pavement near her face with her paper-thin PPE, when her true isolation would begin. -- No hugs for three weeks, no kisses upon the cheek -- certainly could be made up in 24 hours, let alone seven days this week. As I type and then view through our kitchen window, I am imagining our neighborhood market arriving, others with symptoms hiding, co-mingling just inside that obedient, sliding door, knowing I alone could deliver her all described and much more in just one hour. But, the best gift I can give is to remain vigilant, stronger and not another sufferer in this crisis until the last lung heals, she stops complaining post-recovery. And, would it kill you God to turn back on the sun before she arrives another abysmal morn in a captive world, inside this sequestered, ruminating company waiting for the day we can linger outside this door? |