Pandemic Hoodie

As the world changed 

overnight 

like a tidal wave 

of unseen particulates 

whose weight threatened 

to topple everything. 

I retreated to 

the corner of my house 

with the laptop 

and worked from home 

unsure of our 

collective tomorrow. 

That winter 

I remember 

it always seemed 

cold and gray 

and I would reach 

for the oversized, 

worn and faded 

navy blue zippered hoodie 

that I rarely wore. 

It was less a hoodie 

than it was a blanket 

of normalcy, 

a reminder of better days. 

I wrapped myself in it 

and cried, 

despaired, 

hid and 

generally kept working, 

often pulling the hood down 

over my eyes, 

as would a monk 

serving penance 

for a crime 

he didn’t commit. 

The hoodie became 

a second skin, 

dependable, protective 

and perpetually wrinkled 

(like my own skin), 

and I spent months 

soaking up all that 

loose, sloppy security. 

Mercifully, 

time didn’t stop, 

vaccines arrived, 

virus transmission slowed 

and I began breathing easier. 

The world began 

resembling something 

post-pandemic, 

and I realized that my hoodie, 

worn out from use, 

full of holes yet holy, 

my 100% cotton talisman, 

was no longer necessary. 

Just as simply 

as it was announced, 

the national emergency ended: 

I made it 

through the pandemic 

without getting infected, 

where so many others 

had not. 

I quietly thanked God 

for my health, 

for the vaccine, 

for my enormous good fortune 

but mostly 

for the pandemic hoodie.