For a few minutes on Monday afternoon, clumps of snowflakes swirled in the air, large as silver dollars. I was scrolling through my Twitter feed while eating lunch, checking for news of violence in D.C. or state capitals. There wasn’t any, thank goodness. The snow was brief, and did not stick.
I feel as if I am spinning like those snowflakes, neither here nor there, caught in liminal time and space, somewhere on the invisible threshold between states of being.
I go about my work and meetings on ephemeral Zoom, catch up on correspondence with friends and family, tell Al to “be safe” when he goes out to see his clients and do their grocery shopping.
I recheck our state’s Covid website to see if there are any new announcements about vaccine availability. There are none. I check the time and count the hours until Wednesday’s noontime Inauguration.
I look at surreal images of our nation’s capital, thick with masked men and women in camouflage, carrying arms—this time, in service of our country—and am both relieved and so very sad that it has come to this.
I remember to meditate before breakfast, but forget to walk after lunch. Daylight wanes as another 24-hour cycle wheels past or through or into memory.
My memory isn’t as sharp as it once was, so I write, so I know that I really was here, in this strange time and place that will someday be the subject of countless doctoral theses and historical treatises. I imagine colloquia and documentaries and debates, far into the future, about the forces that shaped our present, when people will wonder how we let it happen. They will have the advantage of knowing how it all turned out. But we must remain, here, and wait, and wait.
Image: Darius Cotoi