You're invited to a hibernation party!
December 1st, 2020 at my place. Everyone is invited. No RSVP necessary. Wear pajamas.
It's dark out. I'm wearing a sweater and jeans and listening to music that I stopped paying attention to a few ad breaks ago. I put my hands under my shirt and press my fingers against my bare stomach to warm them.
I look at my reflection in the darkened window. My idle thoughts ask why I'm here.
I don't get a break from the worry, or the dread, or the fear of the days to come. I hold my breath for a second; my reflection blurs as I stare at it.
My hands are cold.
I take a breath.
That's what it was like: weeks of holding my breath until I remembered that I still needed oxygen, and staring while the world around me blurred, and trying not to feel the numbness spreading inward from my cold fingertips.
My thoughts ask again: What are you doing here?
I have an answer that I can't put into words. I pretend I don't hear when they tell me it isn't good enough. I am here whether they like it or not, whether I like it or not, because I don't know where I stop and they begin. Can I draw a line?
Bring a snack if you can, nonperishable. We'll want them when we wake up.
When?
When I have feeling back in my hands again.
