seeking proximity
Last spring, on one of Cleveland’s many overcast days, I was commuting home from work and happened to look out the bus window at the right time. Just as the coach was turning the corner I spotted a USPS truck parked on a side street, and through its driver side window I saw the mailman rolling a cigar—an act of self-indulgence that I was the sole witness of, that I thought I would save for a scrap of a poem, but is now here. I would then go on to see 8.5 by 11” pieces of paper tacked up in storefront windows or doors with black text, all different variations of “Due to the COVID-19 pandemic, we are closed…” and parking lots of office buildings gradually emptying out.
It’s difficult to feel close to the lives we had before the pandemic. I barely recognize myself, let alone the people, places, and things I felt close to, and am struggling to maintain emotional proximity with. The past year has been a slow burn—watching relationships full of inside jokes and meaningful memories whittling down to an occasional like on an Instagram photo.
I realized that I’ve partially reverted back to the all encompassing vulnerability I had when I was in middle school, or even my freshman year of college. Simply put, I’m an anxious, weepy mess. A year into this, I’m scared to text people that I miss them because I don’t know how much space I take up in their lives anymore, or if there’s any room left for me at all, or if that will change when the pandemic is truly over. I can only buy flowers so many times to make myself feel less lonely. No matter how much I water them they still wilt and lose their saturation, and I’m back at the grocery store staring at Gerbera daisies, sunflowers, tulips, and miniature roses, deciding who will be my next companion.
I know that many all over the country are recalling their last “normal” days, trying to catch any glimpse of a feeling that isn’t theirs to claim anymore—certainty. Places that we thought we could revisit have shuttered permanently or have had to start GoFundMe campaigns to stay afloat. And even with news of more widespread vaccine availability, there is no indication of what a post-COVID world will look like for anyone. Will we be able to run full speed to our old haunts, ripping our masks off our faces, gluttony ensuing? Or will we tread cautiously? Despite the signs I see everywhere that say “Stay safe and stay positive” or “We’re in this together”— I feel the exact opposite. We are all navigating this alone—and it’s so much more than missing people, places, and things. It’s collective grief of not feeling close to anything, more than six feet apart, and exhaustion from keeping any kind of excitement alive.
I recently moved, and while I found myself going through the nostalgia-inducing process of compartmentalizing my belongings, I found the journals I kept throughout college. Among the few cringe-worthy dating chronicles (and the red flags that I deemed rose-colored at the time) were the plans I had for myself after graduation. In February of last year I was convinced that 2021 would be the year I moved to New York. And here I am, composing this in my very first one-bedroom apartment in the same zip code. Not to say that I’m falling behind or failing in any way—if anything, this pandemic has shown me that I don’t need to sacrifice comfort just so I can live up to an idea that I had earlier in my twenties (a financially unjust one at that). A change of scenery is still a change of scenery nonetheless.
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The most challenging revelation for me has been that my relationship with writing has changed since last March. I have been struggling to create a consistent body of work, to feel close to the craft itself. I’ve found other interests and niches during quarantine and have been in my head too much about whether or not I should write about them—i.e., how my style has changed during the pandemic, or how I’ve started collecting colored glassware from thrift stores—because I don’t want my voice to become over-saturated by consumerism. But of course, that’s silly, because you don’t have to write something thematic or academic to be taken seriously as a writer. And I know that the more hesitant I am to write, the worse I feel—and the heaviness of that is unbearable.
I can tell that I’m moving into the next phase of my life, or that something new is coming. So I’m going to soak up that feeling and the ideas that come with it, as much as I can.