Remember that Spring
Remember that spring we all wore masks and avoided strangers more than usual and lived like hermits in that not-so-hermit-like-city.
Remember that time we felt guilty and nervous every time we wandered outdoors but that spring was so vibrant that the mixed taste of guilt and fear and beauty and awe created something new and delicate and precious in our mouths.
Remember how we spent more hours than I can count in our little apartment, molding new routines out of colored pencils and cauliflower rice, audiobooks, and movies we’d already watched.
Remember how my parents moved across the country right before it all started and we were relieved cus they’d be safer there, in the land of backyards, and individual sanitized cars, and hiking trails; nothing like this city of recycled air apartments and subway communities that are lovely but dangerous in times like these.
Remember when I cried when my parents left though, and we didn’t know when we’d get to sit around and drink wine and play board games with them again.
Remember how I did the dishes and took out the trash and went to pick up groceries and you made dinner and worked extra hard from home and sometimes we wanted to kill each other but we also kept each other alive with every gesture and touch and little kindness.
Remember how every 45 minutes or so I’d ask “wanna come see my art?”
And you’d chuckle and get up from your work and come look at my drawing and stroke my hair and tell me I’m clever and I’d beam like a proud child and my heart would shine a little brighter.
Remember how I cut your hair over the bathroom sink and well it was kind of crooked and not exactly a mullet but kind of a mullet.
Remember how we finally figured out how to get on the roof of our little apartment and we’d climb up the ladder and cheer at the top of our voices.
Remember how the whole city erupted in simultaneous cheering and singing and banging on pots and pans and so maybe we weren’t so alone after all.
Remember how we came up with new creative ways to have fun and create community without touching or hugging or sharing physical space.
Remember how we spent way more money than usual on wine.
Remember how I cried a lot. Even more than usual. And you were extra gentle.
Even more than usual.
Remember how sometimes it felt like it would never end.
Remember how it became hard to imagine a time when things would go back to normal.
But it did and we went dancing and we lost ourselves in a crowd of strangers and we sat on the laps of our loved ones.
And at first it was a little scary and we felt timid and bashful in our touching and remembered closeness.
But soon we adjusted and we took it all for granted in a beautiful way.
Cus it’s the kind of closeness that should taste normal and sweet and lovely.
