Two years ago I awoke in a world of my own.
Nestled in bed, protected by bundled up sheets
and the blanket I can’t sleep without.
My morning routine:
Roll over, check phone,
delete emails, scroll Twitter.
I opened the email.
The kind we all received. March 2020.
It marked the before and the after.
And the after;
it’s brutal, it’s transformative,
It’s painful and confusing.
And it feels like home.
It will never go back to the way it was.
I won’t either.
My early twenties spun to mid-
I purged my closet of floral patterns.
Lexi lives in a photo on my nightstand.
I bought frames for two degrees.
Chaos feels familiar.
How do I live in precedented times?
Will I ever get to again?
Light illuminating cracks. A lump in my throat.
People diminished to numbers. Hospitals bursting.
Steps toward adulthood: A job, a new place to live.
Wishing mom and dad could still tuck me in.
Cities on fire. A gulp of black coffee on a sunrise flight.
Brief glimpses of hope. Long stretches of despair.
I still want to be angry. That may never go away,
but am I allowed to thank the thing that tore my life in two?