Reaching for you, finding your hand

Hum - Shapeshifter

Waking up in America these days, my first step (after I’ve decided I can’t snooze the alarm any longer) is to determine whether I’m feeling angry or just sad. The bags under my eyes feel permanent. My hair is definitely thinning in front, where it isn’t just breaking off. Some days, I shave.

My coffee tastes good. It’s the only part of the day that has any familiarity to whatever former life was.

I read the news. I check for any updates on the US-Canada border. I scroll through photos of my girlfriend to remember the details of her face. It’s been eight months since I was last home.

For a moment, I remind myself of my luck. I’m safe where I am, to the extent I can be. I’m not under pressure to do the things that might add me to the daily statistics. I’m protected.

But in being neither fully here, nor there at all, it’s hard to determine where I actually exist.

I exist here, in this bewildering moment. We’re all in it together, and we’re all in it alone.