Island State
Kona Morris
The Department of Health just announced no new cases on the entire island of Hawaii. Zero. Nada.
And yet, I have it.
I am the only person on the island with Covid.
I am stuck inside my treehouse apartment, overlooking a shimmering wall of blue ocean.
And this wall of blue ocean is supposed to rise today–a tsunami warning for 4:35pm was issued after an 8.1 earthquake struck the South Pacific, just off the coast of New Zealand.
So I am quarantined with Covid, the only case on the island, and there is a tsunami warning in effect.
Things are not looking up.
My mind is pulling to make sense of it all, if any sense can be made.
Isn’t that what we are supposed to do? Even if there are no answers possible, we strive to string it all together into a narrative that makes sense.
Sense.
Senses . . .
I grab the scented candle and inhale deeply, continuously testing my ability to perceive smell, terrified that it’s already not as strong as it should be.
What will I do if I am suddenly unable to smell and taste? What if it’s permanent and I lose my lifelong love affair with pickles and hot sauce?
Nothing. I will do nothing because there is nothing to be done.
I will mourn the loss and live in a strange new virus-altered reality.
The wind blows across the lanai, leaving goosebumps on my naked legs.
Already my cells are being changed. Rewritten.
I have moved from column A to column B. Joined the infected masses. The 116 million worldwide. And counting.
I am no longer one of the lucky ones.
What else is there to do, but sit back and hope for a wave big enough to wash it all away?
Losing your ability to smell is called anosmia. The word sounds ancient on my tongue. An-os-mia.
The morning before I tested positive, I took a long hike up the mountain, and on my way back down, I noticed how the plumeria were all blooming. Most of the flowers are too high up, but one tree had a branch reaching down. I almost walked by it, but something stopped me. I stood on my toes, barely able to reach, and pressed my nostrils against the soft petal flesh, inhaling sweetness. I thought about picking it, but decided to let it live.
Waves of fear creep up and I try not to let myself drown in them.
Maybe my symptoms are psychosomatic? If I hadn’t been tested, would I even know?
I don’t have a fever . . . I feel okay . . .
But the next second I am under again.
From my quarantined perch, the ocean still looks calm.
So I fill my lungs with air.
And wait.
Kona Morris
The Department of Health just announced no new cases on the entire island of Hawaii. Zero. Nada.
And yet, I have it.
I am the only person on the island with Covid.
I am stuck inside my treehouse apartment, overlooking a shimmering wall of blue ocean.
And this wall of blue ocean is supposed to rise today–a tsunami warning for 4:35pm was issued after an 8.1 earthquake struck the South Pacific, just off the coast of New Zealand.
So I am quarantined with Covid, the only case on the island, and there is a tsunami warning in effect.
Things are not looking up.
My mind is pulling to make sense of it all, if any sense can be made.
Isn’t that what we are supposed to do? Even if there are no answers possible, we strive to string it all together into a narrative that makes sense.
Sense.
Senses . . .
I grab the scented candle and inhale deeply, continuously testing my ability to perceive smell, terrified that it’s already not as strong as it should be.
What will I do if I am suddenly unable to smell and taste? What if it’s permanent and I lose my lifelong love affair with pickles and hot sauce?
Nothing. I will do nothing because there is nothing to be done.
I will mourn the loss and live in a strange new virus-altered reality.
The wind blows across the lanai, leaving goosebumps on my naked legs.
Already my cells are being changed. Rewritten.
I have moved from column A to column B. Joined the infected masses. The 116 million worldwide. And counting.
I am no longer one of the lucky ones.
What else is there to do, but sit back and hope for a wave big enough to wash it all away?
Losing your ability to smell is called anosmia. The word sounds ancient on my tongue. An-os-mia.
The morning before I tested positive, I took a long hike up the mountain, and on my way back down, I noticed how the plumeria were all blooming. Most of the flowers are too high up, but one tree had a branch reaching down. I almost walked by it, but something stopped me. I stood on my toes, barely able to reach, and pressed my nostrils against the soft petal flesh, inhaling sweetness. I thought about picking it, but decided to let it live.
Waves of fear creep up and I try not to let myself drown in them.
Maybe my symptoms are psychosomatic? If I hadn’t been tested, would I even know?
I don’t have a fever . . . I feel okay . . .
But the next second I am under again.
From my quarantined perch, the ocean still looks calm.
So I fill my lungs with air.
And wait.