You wash your hands. You lather them with antibacterial soap and you scrub till the skin is raw and red. Then you turn the tap off with your elbow pushing the bathroom door open with your back to exit.
You sit, it has now become your days’ work, you sit hard and soft, on sofas and the floor. You sit in regret and in nostalgia, with a mind filled with worries and empty with boredom.
You wait, on the mail, on your unemployment check, your severance pay. You wait, on a call from a potential employer and on a cure.
You clean your house, your car, your mind. Then the ash comes and covers it all up.
Then you cry, you cry for yourself, you cry for others. You sit with snot running down your nose as you see the daily covid numbers rise, rise, rise as people die.
Then the doorbell rings and you push the bathroom door with you back, scrub your face raw and red and practice smiling. Then you turn the tap off with your elbow pushing the bathroom door open with your back to exit.
Put on your mask and answer the door.