There’s a smell

There’s a smell I can’t stop sensing, creeps up on me. So, I clean everything. Scrub until my hands are raw, we’re out of rubber gloves again.

I put garlic to bed for the first time, separating cloves, the skin tissue paper thin and remind myself of futures where they might multiply, if I do it right.

My grandmother dies—complications related to Covid-19—we’re in a pandemic, still. They lay her to rest with ceremony and feast. My husband cooks a turkey dinner, the best we’ve ever had. And we feast, too. Don’t be ungrateful. I’m thankful and angry, too.

The last of my grandparents, and I feel older, more tired. “Just wear a fucking mask,” I tell people, post into the abyss, my echo chamber. While protestors gather in front of hospitals, because they can’t stand the inconvenience of a piece of cloth, a paper. Never mind the loss of our elders, our stories and histories, we won’t ever hear now because we never did call enough.

I’m tired. Aren’t you tired?