There’s a change in the weather I didn’t notice before. I can taste it. On the teeny hairs on my cracked tongue. Dry musk – bergamot. No. More of a stale smell like a cedar closet that hasn’t been opened for ages. Dank. With a hint of old lady’s muskrat fur coat, not evident yesterday. My senses. Piqued. I look-see over at the stream of light punching through the crack in the window and recoil like a Bela Lugosi vampire. Too much. Too soon. The filmy glow unfamiliar after an eon spent in isolation. There is much to revive. Restore. I emerge like a bear from its den. Famished. I don’t remember when I gobbled up the last ramen pkg. Empty cans, soiled take-out cartons, dehydrated and junk food foils, cellophane, and Styrofoam packaging punctuate the countertops, marking my itinerary and grazing practices of the last few months. No sense in rummaging around in the cupboards, I know they are bare. I hear the tiny brown mouse scurrying. Again, behind the sofa. Sounds like he’s found something to eat. Carrying it off through the fissure, in the dry wall. He’s darling. But I do need to eat. I reposition the trap a little closer. To the hole. It’s hard to tell what season we’re in, now. Is that snow I smell. I’ve been self-isolating. For so long. Last time I checked the president was behaving like a Sith Lord. Soon after, my internet connection went down. Something about non-payment of fees; the last mailed invoice said. But honestly. It’s been a welcome reprieve to be without cable. And Wi-Fi. I mean after all the sparring with the press, a break, does a person well. This social distancing thing is taking a major toll. My skin has lost its healthy sheen. More mayonnaisy than tanned, and the granular flaking is not a pretty picture. I desperately need a strong dose of Vit D. I peel back the edge of pasted newspaper pressed against the windowpane. It has done an excellent job keeping the winds and cold at bay, but, in, the, process, I, had, to, sacrifice, sunlight. I turn the door handle, but it doesn’t budge; rusted stuck. From disuse. I can hear the wind rattling the branches against the side of the house and can feel the daylight warming the door. If I call out, I wonder if my neighbour Milosevic will hear me. Come to my rescue. Let me out. I open my mouth, but a pitiful sound emerges – not my own. It’s been so long since I’ve spoken. To anyone. My voice has shrivelled from disuse. I remember once when I lost my voice from laryngitis and had to nurse it back to full decibel with hibiscus tea. And manuka honey. What I would give for a teaspoon of that delectable nectar now. Well, that’s not going to happen – since all the bees went extinct long ago. I decide that when this is finally all over, I’m going to get a dog. I’ll call her Mercy. Pitié for short, to remind me… I’ll be better prepared for the next pandemic. I grab my n-95 and head for the door. I take another gander out the window – heavy clouds, chalky. I decide I can wait for a change in the weather. 551 words Published in 'Life in the Time of Covid', December 19 2020
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
No part of these stories / blog may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recorded, or photocopied form without written permission of the author, Karen Schauber
Contact Karen Schauber for written permission Archives
April 2024
Visit: http://GroupofSevenFlashFiction.weebly.comCategories |