soaked in honey, stung and swollen, reckless, pinned against time*

In her poem "If You Knew," Ellen Bass begins:

What if you knew you’d be the last to touch someone?

*****
A few nights ago, I dreamt I was living with the kids on some sort of farm or commune. It was out in the country and we were sheltering there to escape the spread of COVID-19. We were in a modest cabin with wide windows. The sun gleamed across the wooden floor. Something simmered on the stove. The children played. I thought about the garden and the food we grew with our own hands. Bees strummed through the air. The cat's velvet mouth lazily yawned and lapped. This was home. My home. Our home.

I thought I was safe.

Then these giant pig-like creatures - much like the pigoons in Atwood's Oryx and Crake trilogy - lumbered towards our home and began loudly rooting the garden earth. Dirt flew behind them as they stamped and gnashed all the growing food and flowers.

I was panicked. What would we eat? When will the pigs leave? I was confused and frustrated.

Squinting my eyes, I focused on the largest pig. It held a limp and lifeless human hand in his great mouth. The pigs worked together to pull and shift the arm attached to the hand. Next, one by one, the pigs tugged dead bodies out of the ground. Body after body. The air quivered with the stench. I wanted to vomit. I was scared they would want fresh bodies next.

I turned around and tried to keep Atticus and Persephone from seeing all of the bodies. They kept trying to look and they were asking questions and I couldn't get away from the sight, sound, and smell of all the dead and the pigs tearing at the garden and the corpses.

My panic intensified. I couldn't keep my children safe. I didn't want them to see. The pot on the stove began to smoke. Bees stilled. The cat ran. The light through the window was clouded by hulks of shadow. The air was pungent with loss.

*****
In mid-March, a robin built a nest in the giant holly bush near the front porch. Atticus found the nest and we began a daily watch for mama bird. Four bright blue eggs. Then, four small birds with tiny, straining necks, closed eyes, and small, hungry beaks. Atticus named the baby birds: Oatmeal, Davis, Lockjaw, and Birdie Sanders. He dug up earthworms and piled them under the holly bush so mama bird wouldn't have to work as hard. Persephone picked fistfuls of violets and shoved them into my hands and danced them around the bush. When leaving the house, mama bird would swoop and rush towards our heads. Atticus assured us, "she is doing her job as a mama bird and keeping the babies safe."

A few days before giants storms and a tornado swept through parts of Chattanooga, the nest was empty. We think the birds left the exposed nest to make their home in a tall, shaded tree.

*****

3 April 2020, 5:43 a.m.

Distancing

Night. Wakeful with sweat
sheened to skin.
Gasped.
Pulled air staled with moon and night.
My lungs, my heart - expanded.
The breath nests (here)
above, around, inside. I
dreamt
your small body thrummed full of
beating birds. Then stillness and
your ribs held an indefinite
pause. I could not give
you
breath. Trying, trying to intubate
life back, rattle the roar of living.
-
We walk with distance weighted
between neighbors, friends, and the
blue
stretch of April veils above us.
No graying. No rain.
Save a thousand, a million
invisible droplets suspended in
air
and waiting. I answer your questions.
My voice chirped and calm:
You are safe and loved.
Safe and loved.
Safe
and loved and right now there
is no lie.
While you sleep, I stir watchful
wishing to arrest this
suffocating
distance. Shutter the loss and
give you space
to breathe.

******
Atticus and Persephone are in the backseat of the car. We are winding up the mountain to buy ranunculus, anemones, and tulips from the small flower stand. The children sing their current favorite song, "and the memories we've made, will never be lost, no / And the look on your face, we both knew the cost / But the wind, yes the wind keeps howling." The windows are down and the fresh air whips our hair as we make the steep climb up Signal Mountain.

It is in my nature to plan, strategize, and focus on the future, on security, on what will be "permanent." Now, I'm hungry for the temporary. I'm hoarding all I can of things that fade.

I simply can't buy enough flowers. Twice a month we go to the flower stand. Twice a month I marvel at the color, scent, and softness of the petals. The flowers wilt, but for a time they give me immense joy.

I've been cooking more. I baked a sourdough chocolate cake. I've cooked vegetable-laden potpies, butternut black bean chili, mango quinoa salad, lentils and brown rice, mashed kabocha squash, and pancakes. The food is temporary, but I appreciate showing people I love them by cooking meals and treats.

In the morning, we sit on the back deck, scatter birdseed, and watch. We're watching a cardinal's nest in a high tree flanked with honeysuckle. Wisteria climbs another tree and the bees dart and dance from flower to flower. I pull my children to my lap and nuzzle their hair, kiss their cheeks, and tell them that they are precious to me and I'm so happy I get to be their mama. I won't always be here, but I can be here right now; present and glad that I'm lucky enough to be their mama.

*****
I've learned so much about myself while being quarantined. I can't keep my children totally safe, but by staying at home I increase our chances of staying safe. Planning for the future is not everything. Being mindful and appreciative of the right now, the temporary, the unsure, is an exercise in vulnerability and courage. I am so loved; friends arrange online socials, write letters, and sit under my carport at a safe distance and we talk. The warmth of their words and kind gestures assures me that there is more good in the world than bad. I will never again take human touch for granted. I've learned that I sleep better with someone beside me. Movies are better when watched with others. Morning birdsong and a large cup of coffee can stopper sadness, at least for a time. I'm pretty good at cooking and baking, but my sourdough bread could use a little work. Dancing and flowers are essential to my being a content soul.

******

How close does the dragon’s spume
have to come? How wide does the crack
in heaven have to split?
What would people look like
if we could see them as they are,
soaked in honey, stung and swollen,
reckless, pinned against time?*

*****
If I remember that every human interaction, bird, flower, meal, book, cup of coffee could possibly be my last, perhaps I'll stop and fully enjoy it. The fear and panic is still there; I've learned to acknowledge that feeling and tell myself that "right now, I am safe and I am loved." I'm ceasing the worry about future dreams and enjoying what I have at this moment.


*lines from a favorite Ellen Bass poem, "If You Knew."