The night comes suddenly
Today, the planets have aligned in a rather unfortunate formation.
My dad, my youngest sister Kate, and I are all ill at the same time.
In the afternoon, we each hole up in our respective bedrooms upstairs, while we harmonize unconsciously to each other’s sniffles and coughs.
A slow-paced chorus.
Sometimes, all three coughs come at the same moment.
Sometimes, a consecutive roll of inflamed throats, like an untuned drum beat.
I notice that this exact combination of circumstances has not occurred before. The three of us stuck at home in a weekday afternoon, while my mother, who somehow never succumbs to illness, and my other sister Issa, who had just recovered from what seemed to be the same virus—so she still has the anti-bodies to protect her from us—are both at school.
It’s been a long afternoon of alone togetherness.
The night comes suddenly.
Kettlebell
I admire the genius of the kettlebell. It just sits there. It uses the laws of physics to fool me into thinking that it does any work to fulfill its role in the workout. But of course, I do the work, but not all of it. Momentum assists my one-armed swing. Gravity provides tension to my shoulder press. Inertia is the resistance to my squats. The kettlebell just sits there.
Early Morning
Before the Sun rises, the sky is daytime-blue mixed with a drop of deep blank ink.
My body clock has awakened me at exactly 5:10 AM.
I wonder how I used to wake up before the sunrise every day before going to school.
Maybe it was simply necessity.
Rest Days
Rest days are for anxious rumination
And for making future to-do lists
And for forced deep breaths
And for wondering where all the motivation has gone
And for doomscrolling through self-dev reels
And for just knowing I should be doing something productive
And for catastrophizing
And for overthinking
And for doubting whether I should take a nap
And for not reaching out to friends
And for writing about what not to do on rest days.
Waiting in the Car
I do enjoy waiting in the car, with the engine on and the air-conditioning on.
When I was much younger, about half the size I am today, I would wait in the backseat.
No music, no phone.
My dad in the driver’s seat read How Starbucks Saved My Life, which is the same book still in the car door compartment.
The engine is at rest but does not stop. It vibrates in a cycle of varying intensity. Just like how dogs or rabbits would at rest. Sometimes, I think the engine dislikes being left on like this.
We are parked in front of a Mercury Drugstore, where my mom is in a long line at the counter. Her mission is to acquire antibiotics. It’s always antibiotics. Someone in the family is sick.
Today, my dad is not in town.
I wait for my sisters in the driver seat of the car. They are almost finished with school for the day.
The engine shakes its usual shake. I do enjoy waiting in the car.
Arriving and Leaving
Physical arrival to any place is instant
But there’s so much inertia involved in feeling it.
It took me seeing many of my friends by chance at the opening of a friend’s gelato store
Before finally feeling like I’ve arrived home.
Leaving is similar.
Physically, it’s instant.
But a part of you stays
Until each bit and piece knows it’s time.