Day 2

It’s not going to go away soon.

At least, not as soon as we think it is.  Here they are, politicians and governments sneezing out dates like prophets – dates when the lockdowns are going to end.  We latch on to those dates midair, confusing them with the D-Day that the virus is going to pass.  April 12. April 16.  Till the end of the month.  Maybe end of May?  Anyway, just a couple weeks longer.  Wash your hands, don’t touch your face, and stay home for a few more days, and this is going to pass.  Everything will return to normal, as if nothing ever happened.  How hard is that?  How bad can it really be?

Until further notice. Wait, what?

This will take at least two months, says the mayor.  And be prepared for longer.  Longer? There will be mass deaths, and you will know them.  Your friends. Your family.  Your elderly loved ones.

I turn off the radio as I drive past the St. Leon Armenian Cathedral on Interstate 5, southbound.

Relax.

Just, relax.

Relax.

But how?  

No, don’t relax.  This is real.  But, don’t panic.  Everything’s going to be alright.  Always.

Relax.

Relax.

I slide from one state of hypnosis to another, replacing the words of the politician with the view of the road.  The open road.  The endless road.  The road to home.  A road very familiar.  A road I’ve never seen before like this – empty, on a Wednesday early evening.  The sun is up, it’s behind my back descending in the West.  See, that hasn’t changed.  The sun is still there.  It’s lighting the way.  The cross on the church is gleaming against the sunrays.  The cross, too, is still there.

Where are all the people? Where are all the cars?  This is odd.  Is this the path?

My glance drifts from the white lines flanking the sides of my path and rests upon the backs of my hands pressing against the steering wheel.  My hands have changed.  I see red, chafed spots right below my two thumbs, on my wrists.  What?… Oh.  Water. It’s where the water hits my hands when I place them under the running faucet to get them wet.  And when I apply soap and rub my hands, and place my hands under the running faucet once more, that’s where the water hits them again.  And again.  My knuckles too, they’re red.  When did this happen?

I take my exit to Colorado Street.  I think of my sister.  I hug her tenderly in my thoughts.  I miss her.  Soon, very soon.  When?

We’re going to be ok.

Everything is going to be alright.

Even when you don’t see it, the sun is still there, somewhere.