I am not underwater,
but I’m holding
my breath.
I’m not waiting for
anything specific –
maybe even
nothing at all.
I keep looking around:
blue sky,
green grass,
blooming flowers.
Nothing looks different.

The mail comes
every day;
I get packages
and bills
and flyers
just like before.
I take walks
and read
to my children.
Cook dinner
and do the dishes.
Laundry is infinite.
My head hums with
of the news
and snippets
of headlines
as I fold towels.

It’s all the same,
but it’s not.
Routine daily
line up and I check
them off until I
“Why bother?”
and then I lay
on the couch
and stream Netflix
for hours
while my kids
eat chips and
video chat friends
and my husband
works remotely
from our bedroom.

It’s like my life
was taken
out of context.
I’m at home,
but I’m lost.
I can’t go back
to the world
I knew
how to
so now I must
rewrite my
to fit something
no one can
or predict.

And while I
make pancakes
and cut grass
and water plants,
I must also make
plans in my head.
I’m standing
beside my
lilac bush
and the creek
and my front porch,
but my mind can’t
wrap around
what’s happening
beyond my
front yard.