it’s like a switch turned off
like a bulb went out
electricity stopped flowing, cascading all throughout cities and towns and nations
well, here we are — frozen in time
trying to dance and feel our way through the vast darkness, being mindful of the damage done
i long to reach out and grab a hand, feeling fingertips skimming past my own
nothing is there
eyes become reservoirs of sadness, longing to feel the smoothness of a palm, giving it a tug and squeeze
nothing.
laying down, looking at the unadorned white ceiling and just thinking
“how did we get here?”
minds teetering back and forth
“don’t touch” becomes a new norm
i miss seeing faces. i miss embraces.
i hate that your beautiful face is covered by a mask
your delicate hands engulfed by latex
smiling was never meant to be hidden behind a piece of cloth, only seeing your eyes crinkle to know and understand that you’re happy
heart rates quicken; fear is a common denominator.
breathing is constrained to a machine
it breaks us, piece by piece and layer by layer till the bones in our bodies ignite with a passion of vulnerability and hatred
“how did we get here?”
did we just stumble our way into disaster
or can we find joy in the unknown?
i hear jesus. i see jesus.
i see him in first responders
i see him in volunteers
and essential workers
i see him in the millions of smiles shared despite the aching and the hurting and the crumbling. it clings into the darkness of the night sky, grinning and laughing in fear’s face.
i hear him in the joys of zoom calls
in the playful bickering of dinner finally coming to the table again
in the claps of rejoice to another survivor
in the ringing laughter of kids, as they find senses of jubilation through being with their family
in the cheers of drive-by celebrations
in the tender whispers of prayers
in the tearful, choked sobs as you plant your hand on the glass, longing to interlock it with the person on the other side.
he is here. he is near.
— talya ozbelli