Marisa Lin
San José
hunched over the cinder block, we coax out the baby possum,
orphaned and delicate. in a towel we wrap her, set her next to a
mother in the form of a hot water bottle. when
early the next morning we find her gone, we
hold open the side door, knowing that she will
orchestrate her escape from our garage
much like the way we all too often
excuse our exits from Zoom meetings—
hasty, discreet, with no more than a brief missive
over chat: sorry, got to run! and run we go, digital nomads
meeting and dispersing to the ends of the cyber
earth. yet still we find ways to share our
home: for our pet beta fanning his fins above the
opalescent pebbles, pellets drop like
manna from our sanitized fingertips; on
Easter, we cut loaves of cookie dough, enough to feed
half a congregation; and on discharge days we Door-Dash
oversized dinners to say welcome back from the hospital! and welcome we do;
mastering the art of social-distanced greetings to the point of
effortlessness, we ring the doorbells of neighbors old and new,
harboring bread or cupcakes or lemon bars, goodwill
offerings of sorts. then upon return, we
make good on our pledge to finish the rest.
enter the dirty dishes: one by one, they pile in
heaps that put the leaning tower of pisa to shame. then
one after another, day by day, they are cleaned, in a rotating
model of love. and when finally the
evening comes, together we housemates dine, a clan of
hermits enjoying the
ordinary
mood of
ever after.
Photo by Sabrina Sordello