Pull on the gloves. Zip up the jacket. Wipe down the handles. I’m off to war.
Seven months pregnant with twins, and this grocery store has become my battlefield. A place where an invisible enemy lurks on every surface, inside any throat. All bodies before me must be looked at with suspicion; I have no comrades; it’s every man for himself.
Carrying precious cargo, I can’t take any risks, trip over any traps. And I’ve got to keep my hands away from my face.
Get in and get out. Take only what you need. Memorize every move you make. And don’t touch your face!
When I finally return home, I strip down, leave my jacket to bake in the sun, drop my gloves in the washing machine, and head straight to the sink. I wash my hands.
How lucky am I that the only battlefield I’ve ever stepped onto has been a grocery store, the only prison I’ve ever been locked inside has been my own cozy home?
When I cook dinner tonight I realize I’m not at war. Other people aren’t my adversaries.
There’s no such thing as being stuck at home. I’m safe at home. I’m one of the lucky ones.
Though I worry for my unborn babies, and for all the vulnerable people in the world, I can’t help but realize that if this is the scariest moment of history I’ve ever had to live through, well damn. I’ve been blessed.
Let us all be grateful, for most of us will never have to think, “I’m off to war.”