Permanent Limp

The time is passing and the days are okay. Every day that begins and ends healthy is a new visitation of luck.

It’s such a weird, almost deforming time, and the longer it goes on, the more I wonder about my own elasticity. When things are back to normal, will I be normal or will I be scotched somehow, permanently distanced from everyone?

I asked my husband tonight if he could envision flying somewhere, getting on a plane again, being with all those people, and he said, “Sure.”

I am not sure. I am unsure. I can’t imagine being close enough to someone to have their arm brush mine reaching for a magazine. But it’s worse than that. I can’t imagine sitting at the dinner table with my own kids.

I’ll get over it. People adjust, they adapt. They remember who they are or used to be. I can do that, too. At the moment, though, I can’t imagine it. It feels like this might be a permanent limp.

5 Comments on “Permanent Limp

  1. I have the same concerns. In fact I am so paranoid about close contact that I have to remind myself that it is ok to hug my husband who lives in seclusion with me.

    Like

  2. I’m only good at predicting catastrophe, all Casandralike. But suck at predicting the better things, the neutral ones, which my head knows are much more frequent despite distorted misperceptions.

    Liked by 1 person

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