Love in the time of coronavirus

Starting last Thursday, terror became a day to day thing. Starting late last month, shit got real. Love in the time of coronavirus means calling just to hear the faraway one’s voice.
“Just checking in. How y’all holding up?”
Video chatting has blurred the meaning of distance. The Winged Wahine had not yet booked our next globe trot. But now that we are sheltering in place, knowing we cannot fly, shared wanderlust, like diamond dust inhaled in the polishing rooms of De Beers factories is lodged in my damaged lung under ribs that hurt when I fly. Motion sickness can be overcome. Air pressure pain can be overcome. Jet lag can be overcome. Wanderlust thunders into the void so this stoicism bred into farm families has something to be stoic about. As we write our letters to later, creating virtual time capsules to be opened after we “get through this thing together”. We tell ourselves pretty lies as one by one, freedoms are curtailed.
Now that I can’t I wanna.
Government mandates inflict upon us a celibacy of sorts, we are all unwitting recluses, living as secular saints in our minds. Where it hits me hardest is the small gatherings. Dinner for four, dropping by but calling first, just to be there in person, noting the grimaces and the smiles, the shared laughter, sitting close enough to hear each other’s stories. Saying that, writing that, from a place of comfort where so many shelves are stocked with books and food and beverages, I look around but am still lost. It’s been many years since I knew the meaning of an empty shelf. The memory of want is something not lost in the midst of plenty.
The news makes it clear that all the King’s horses and all the King’s men couldn’t put hospitals back together again. Because they didn’t ask directions. The female equestrians would have dismounted and asked pertinent questions while all the King’s Men failed to steady their stallions and rode off in search of a leader who can make the problem worse. And in her dying throes, the struggling animal releases her invisible toxin.
Something Alice might have noticed at the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party was the strange shape of her sugar cubes and the tea wasn’t green, it was absinthe. Now I know why the Cheshire Cat could hold a grin. He had absinthe, and LSD in the sugar cubes. A cat is a magical mystical thing, two cats protect my soul. They sleep on my head and eat nightmares.
Here’s the thing I don’t want to say about this, but I will: We had it coming. These are the days of Earth’s retribution, and She has unleashed an invisible foe. Papahanaumoku, Hawaii’s Gaia, rages against the trampling underfoot of her gifts to us. Pele unleashed her fury in 2018. In 2020, Papa fashioned her own killing machine, her viral chainsaw felling old and young alike, clear cutting a space in our species, who have destroyed so many others.

Published by Ms. C. G. Tripp

The new business cards have arrived and with the speed of virtual press, I am self-titled: Catherine G. Tripp, Writer/Investor. Left brain and right brain have battled for dominance all of my life. I wrote the marketing materials for my mortgage brokerage, had a personal finance column at Examiner.com, wrote essays, short stories and poems published in school papers and magazines then literary journals. If my writings were a color, they would be yellow, bright as sunlight, highlighting the salient portions, not obscuring the past but deconstructing air brushed stories, finding humor and courage in the unloved corners.

2 thoughts on “Love in the time of coronavirus

  1. Brilliant, Catherine! The depth and breadth of Love In The Time Of Coronavirus hit me in every way possible: my head, heart and gut. We went to sleep and a totally different world greeted us the next morning.

    Like

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