Some say that this pandemic has given us some gifts, even amongst the rubble and debris of our imploded lives.  I'll give you that.  For me, one of them is writing, and a recent gift of being connected with a Writing Group. 

 

My stuff is unrefined, relatively unedited and kinda raw, but that is sort of how I like life.  So I'm sharing some spoils from this week.  Enjoy!
 

    The feeling wasn't fear.  I don't recall a coldness in my bones, a crawl in my skin, or a stiffening in my spine.  Just tension...like I was holding a shopping bag and was waiting to hear when and where I could set it down.  From the time I have memories I have held this bag.  

    It wasn't exceptionally heavy, maybe a couple of soup cans and some mushrooms in a paper sack.  Just enough to feel that slight pull and burn in the muscles of my arm, the dig of the plastic in my fingers.  I could switch fingers, arms, or the weight in my hips.  I could adjust, adapt.  

    At some point I was carrying more bags.  I was stronger, more agile, the muscles in my arms and legs were harder.  I was tougher and I liked it.  I could carry anything.  Brown paper bags full of frozen food, reusable totes full of organic tofu, coffee grounds, and beer.  A purse with wallet, keys, pens, a journal, the novel I was reading in stolen moments, and sour gummy candy.  

    One day, one year, actually a couple of years, the ground started shaking.  Crumbling.  Breaking into chunks.  Potholes.  Becoming uneven and unsteady.  And then it fell.  

    I dropped the bags.  All of them.  Broken eggs sizzling on the asphalt, almond milk seeping into the cracks, toilet paper wet and wadded up in its plastic wrap.  All of it. 

    Disfigured. Distorted. 

    And so I watched. 

    And walked away.