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.
