[If My Hands Could Speak]

As I journey once more into the unknown,
Strange because I would have sworn I thought I knew it.
Now, fear dwells in many forms,
The metallic of a doorknob, the buttons of
an elevator, the friendly face of the next door neighbor.

Where once I was reckless, now I count every contact,
Each burns with the impression: memorizing fear.
Don’t touch my face,
Don’t touch my eyes.
Don’t touch.
Like the virus, the uncertainty, 
the ubiquitous anxiety spreads with every brush, every handle, every tap.

My hands know every surface but not for lack of trying.
Every wash, I scrub until the trace is but an illusion.
As I make sure to scour away all memories from my pores.
And with every scalding sud,
my memories of human contact slip further from my grasp.
Don’t worry, if I squeeze my eyes hard, I can still sense the fading phantom feeling of an old fling.

What quells my fear?
Six feet.
The aromas of Disinfectant.
Cloth masks.
Open sky.
Sanitizer that dries and cracks.
Sitting in silence.

Holding space for gratitude,
Knowing I am safe inside my sealed little abode, my incubator. 
And I take solace in knowing that the sun still rises,
the flowers still bloom,
the moon still hangs full in the twilight sky.

Nature goes on,
either unaware or unbothered.
Its beauty makes a mockery of our human egos.
Amused that we thought ourselves invincible,
and spent days toiling in strife created by our selfish machinations, the silly zero sum games we insist exist,
And somehow still, such a small speck could topple the towers of all we thought important and necessary.

Not that we are hopeless.
If anything, we have more space to realize what truly matters.
Cooperation, service, and love matter.
Kindness matters.

So as I open my door to the unknown once more,
I am reminded of the light and the dark, the balance,
and resilience of spirit that gifts us space to hold up both.

Because we shall rise above.
Fear will fade.
Life will look different after this,
that knowledge is certain.

The rest, unknown,
that knowledge is certain too.
These times, like fire, forge anew, 
From ashes, we shall rise.

And I look forward to the day my hands no longer burn with the memory of every surface.