It’s been a little over two weeks since I ate a slice of pizza in a roomful of coworkers. We were in a training session. Our teacher and manager had kindly ordered dinner for us. I lowered my mask to eat. But hey, I’m vaxxed and boosted, it’s ok, right? But in those few moments, I breathed in some omicron. A week later, my unmasked coworker was hospitalized with the virus, and others had fallen ill.
I had a fabulous Christmas. For once, my entire clan all ate in the same room. We’d lost a matriarch six months before, so we chose to treasure this holiday together. Time eludes us as we tear through our lives, grinding to keep the roof over our respective heads. But I had a scratchy throat. Allergies, right?
Wrong. I gave my mother omicron. My two youngest children also.
I don’t recall much of the week after Christmas. My children and I floated from heavy sleep to groggy consciousness, shaking off vivid dreams. We weren’t hungry. When awake I tried to handle details: testing, bosses, urgent matters, virtual school, Instacart. My legs buckled beneath me if I stayed up for more than 15 minutes.
Snow and Pigeon Peas
I’d tested at a free community site. We lined up in a chilly park, staring at a tiny rented trailer, listening to each other cough, watching each other shiver. Know what I…