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.