Souvenirs
Pandemic Poetry
My cat continues to steal makeup brushes
from my wife’s side of the sink
where she stores them in a clear plastic tray,
bristles up. We find them littered
throughout the hallway,
souvenirs of normalcy,
signs that not much about our lives
has really changed.
Online, they share videos
of hospital halls lined
with hazmat clad nurses, clapping
as recovery patients are wheeled
toward the exit, handed purple flowers,
tearful eyes brimming with gratitude
no words are necessary
to convey.
While in another city,
an emergency caesarian
is needed to save the baby
of an ICU nurse
whose lungs have left her
starving for oxygen
despite the hiss and clank
of a ventilator
keeping her alive
just long enough
for her child
to take his first breath
in this terrifying
and motherless world.
Tomorrow I know
I should say thank you
to every person I meet,
because the stories I read
have their human origins,
and before I find myself
at home in my bed,
I will have to pick up
the makeup brushes.
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