I had a dream
that we all fell asleep for three years.
When we woke up,
we remembered that not all of us woke up.
Our friends had slipped away in the long
grey night
down a hidden staircase and across
A deep lake.
They are dancing now.
A disco on the head of a pin.
Now we are bestirred
illuminated
and
uncomfortable.
Missing that which escaped through locked doors
masked like a thief.
The normal pace of days –
we just can’t seem to get the hang of it.
Lost in a wood where the trees have leaves of silver.
Snap off a twig.
Could be useful later.
Disoriented
and as tired as a child at the fair.
So tired
and afraid to fall asleep again.
With the masks I could see your eyes smile,
but not your mouth.
Now I see your mouth smile, but it does not reach
your eyes.
Let us wander a bit further along
where the trees have leaves of gold
and the faint thump of the dance floor is heard.
Let us say the name
of each one we have lost
or lost track of
Let us say the names of those who suffer
riddled with fatigue
unable to stand up for themselves
laid off
laid down
laden down.
And now I say
your name.
To honor you
and your sleeping
and your waking
and your smiling
and your tears
And the crumpled up bit of ambition that’s still in your pocket
And the loud thump of your endlessly loving heart.
We are here to learn a new way
maybe gentler
Maybe hungrier.
We’ll travel together to where the trees
sparkle with diamonds
and we’ll wear out our dancing shoes.
©Sam Bennett
Its beautiful. It really hits home. All of us, I mean everyone on this planet, has been affected by Covid 19. It left a mark in time that will forever be talked about and written about. Covid 19 was a true turning point in our evolution as a species. May our masks never keep us from being human.
Amen, Chevy. Thank you so much for your insightful words.
Beautifully written, it made me cry a little, but in a good way. Yes, I think there is still some grieving to do. The past 3 years have created so many losses in and of themselves, in addition to life’s “ordinary” losses (I lost my mother 2 years ago…) which are enough to deal with. I find myself tentatively reclaiming life’s juicy moments, ever conscious that they can be taken away at a moment’s notice, and ever vigilant to prevent that from ever happening again!
I related to your poem on many levels. When asked to leave a comment, I thought, “Oh another thing to do. Let everyone else do it. She’ll get a gazillion messages. What would my comment matter anyway.” And I clicked out. Then I realized it wasn’t me to do that. To not think my voice or participation mattered. To show support or share thoughts especially when asked. I felt my tiredness. That things (I) am not the same after waking up. That time passes in a strange way, and often disorienting, and loss too. So I’m tired. Very tired but I left my thoughts. It was the least I could do. At least.
Oh Pascale – thank you so much for fighting your fatigue and letting us hear your voice. It means the world to me.
I totally feel this, Sam. Thank you for so eloquently expressing it. Something’s been a bit “off” post-pandemic.
Riiiight??? I think we’re all still grieving in some way or form – and ready for something new. New life! <3
I needed this I in bed with COVID since April 10th.
Nedi – I’ve had Long-Haul Covid since Jan 2022 – it’s a bitch, isn’t it? Sending you love always and prayers for healing.
This is wonderful. It resonates with me.
Lauren – thank you so much for taking the time to write.
This is absolutely beautiful Sam. Achingly, hauntingly, immeasurably beautiful.
Oh! Thank you so much, Bridget.