Driving into the city yesterday
made me inexplicably angry.
The traffic and the closeness
and the people, oh my god, the
people everywhere, like maggots
crawling on a corpse. I read an
article once that claimed anything
one does for 30 days or more
becomes a habit, and now, 90 days
of self quarantine, safer-at-home,
making trips only to the grocery
and the dentist and the hardware
store, I wear my habit like a devoted
sister of the order. I felt the call always.
Even in childhood, I could entertain myself
all day sitting under a tree with a book
or riding my bike on the quiet streets
of a fresh 1970s’ subdivision or hypnotized
by the scene out my bedroom window.
Always there was a book, or a bike, or a
window, but not much else was necessary.
I don’t think I’m an introvert. Titles like that
force us into false extremes, but like
most things, it’s a spectrum that we all
travel along as we see fit. I’ve been
a social being at times, mostly in my
20s and 30s, those days when I was
expanding, on the hunt for a career or
a family of choice, but now I have returned
to my original state. I have lost my
elasticity. And though I pray that every
ill effect of this time be swiftly
and safely brought to a close, I also give
thanks to this season that brought me
back inside myself, and I leave the city
to the young.
© 2020 Deb Moore, All Rights Reserved
Published by Deb
Poet, essayist, novelist, writing instructor, music lover, and general optimist.
View all posts by Deb