“Writing the Apocalypse” is a weekly series featuring the poems, essays, and recollections of Puma Perl, with subject matter influenced by her experiences as a NYC resident during the COVID-19 pandemic.

A Random Week in April| By Puma Perl

——————————————————————————–

Standing by the window, I count the lights in the buildings below mine, wonder who is awake, what they are doing, and whether they will wake up tomorrow. Each evening, at 7, I seek out the family across the way, the downstairs whistler, the guy on the street 13 floors below who throws his arms up in the air and waves.

One night, I pull the kitchen shade up too hard and it breaks. I hang checkered pillowcases up and pretend they are curtains. They blow in the breeze and I pretend I’m not lonely. It’s only Friday, and I won’t allow myself to worry about getting sick. Instead, I worry about the toilet flushing, the elevator running, the faucet leaking, the planet shrinking, my world in my room, everything I own in my coffee cup. And when I do break down and think about getting sick, I wonder if I will be able to make myself a cup of tea, if there will be anyone to call an ambulance. I worry about witnesses.

Most days, I refuse to complain. It’s only Saturday, and there’s chicken in the freezer, peanut butter and green apples, shelves filled with books, friends on the phone, and there is music. There’s a co-parented dog and my daughter a few blocks away and my son in Brooklyn, and the river and sky outside my window.

My worst days occurred when my son and his girlfriend were sick. As they fought the virus together in his little brownstone apartment, I thought to myself, if they can get through this, they’ll get through anything, and then I realized this is the proverbial “anything”, and I admit it’s selfish, but when they turned the corner it made my “anything” less rocky. Just for a few hours. Just until the next press conference. But I’m not scared, it’s only Sunday.

Early on a Monday, I learn that my friend Dennis has died; this is the closest it has come, so far. I’m back at the window, 5:45 AM, and the sun will rise soon; there’s nobody to talk to so I speak to the river. “I don’t know how to do this,” I repeat, until sleep finally comes.

When I wake, it’s only Tuesday; I think about the other time I lost all my friends, how we were allowed to mourn and hug and stand outside funeral homes smoking cigarettes; the grace that was bestowed upon us, the honor of holding someone’s hand at the end when all of the outsides are removed and all that is left are the souls. Theirs and ours.

I miss people’s eyes and lips and the faces they make when you see them. At the beginning, I told a friend, “I’d fuck someone I hate, at this point.”

But it’s only Wednesday, and I would give up every word that I’ve written, every dream that I’ve dreamt, for just one hug.

© puma perl, 05/02/2020

Puma Perl is a poet and writer, with five solo collections in print. The most recent is Birthdays Before and After (Beyond Baroque Books, 2019.) She is the producer/creator of Puma’s Pandemonium, which brings spoken word together with rock and roll, and she performs regularly with her band Puma Perl and Friends. She’s received three New York Press Association awards in recognition of her journalism, and is the recipient of the 2016 Acker Award in the category of writing. Her most recent books can be found by clicking here.

Chelsea Community News is made possible with the help of our awesome advertisers, and the support of our readers. If you like what you see, please consider taking part in our GoFundMe campaign (click here). To make a direct donation, give feedback about the site, or send a Letter to The Editor, email us at Scott@chelseacommunitynews.com.