#WhenThisIsOver: I Will Hug My Sister
By TuAnh Dam
When this is over, I’ll walk out of my apartment and bask in the fresh air. I’ll welcome the sounds of the city over the blare of the sirens rushing to the hospital. I’ll head down the street, a couple destinations in mind.
I’ll walk to the Starbucks on the corner, my backpack draped over one shoulder. The line will be crowded and not a face mask in sight. I’ll jump on the subway next and watch the stops zoom by. The performers will entertain us, their music ringing through the cars as passengers throw them some change for their work.
When I get to the airport, I’ll walk through the terminals toward my gate. Only the TSA agents will have to wear gloves. I’ll take the middle seat gladly, my legs dangling over the edge and hovering just above the ground. I’ll say hi to the person in the aisle seat. And when the window seat passenger has to use the bathroom, I won’t complain when I have to get up.
When this is over, and I touch down first in Houston and then in Los Angeles, I’ll see my family again.
I will hug my dad, who manufactures medical supplies, and say thank you.
I will hug my mom, who works at a medical clinic, and say thank you.
I will hug my sister, a doctor, and say thank you.
Thank you, thank you, thank you. I love you.
