Delicacy

I feel delicate,

like the broken piece of egg

that has fallen into the pan

and is resting on the edge of the yolk.

How when you touch it with the corner of the spatula

it fractures into smaller pieces,

determined to become like sand in a bowl of rice.

It is as if all surfaces are coated

with a thin sheen of barely perceptible ice

and it is better to walk awkwardly

than to fall down and risk fracturing

like a delicate egg shell.

I am witness to the delicate nature of healing,

how time is an imprecise thing.

Days, weeks,

they are also months and years,

or seasons, or minutes or hours.

Can you feel each mishap like an old lover?

Like a fateful kiss?

Can you smell the stink of the subway,

the musty tent,

the old carrots gone soft?

I believe in fresh garlic,

perfect rice,

new sheets,

and cold juice.

There is little else that separates goodness from bad.

On a night where the cold gives birth to sleet,

and the stove is so hot it nearly singes your eyelashes,

healing takes many more forms than it gives,

like the nursery rhyme.

Dean at Home: The Pandemic Blog