Plymouth Magazine-Summer26-DIGITAL - Flipbook - Page 9
AND STILL TODAY…
By Sarah Anne Sutter
I
II
There should be a reckoning
for the person who carried COVID into our midst,
who worked the overnight shift in a second assisted living
who each month sent money to expectant hands outstretched
an ocean away.
A greeting, a blessing.
“I am in her apartment now.”
The tv shows say never touch the body.
“The second drawer down, tan slacks, got it.”
Step over. Breathe.
“Blue is such a good color on her.”
Breathe. It’s okay. She can’t feel cold.
“I see two, one has buttons and the other has a little design.”
I feel like I should do something. Kathy would know the protocol.
“The buttons?”
But she called you.
“I am grabbing it now. Any jewelry?”
Step. Breathe.
“Gotcha, how about shoes?”
This isn’t what she envisioned for this moment either.
“Of course, I am glad you reached out.”
I wish I gave her more dignity.
“I will bring them down to the front desk. Just call and someone
can bring them out.”
I wish I would have covered her.
There should be a reckoning
for the residents who walked around the building exposing
others to their illness,
whose minds could not hold the new statutes of isolation,
whose bodies remembered the solace of routine and the comfort
of a friendly face.
There should be a reckoning
for the dietary aide who carefully left styrofoam containers of
cold food
at the building’s doorway,
who navigated top heavy plastic carts,
tiny wheels sliding and locking in the slush and snow from their
kitchen to our lonely threshold.
There should be a reckoning
for the housekeeper who sat,
tucked away in a laundry closet for hours each day,
and video chatted her great-grandchildren scattered across
time zones,
as the virus bloomed from resident to resident,
whose life taught an imperative: of survival before all else.
There should be a reckoning
for the family members who called to berate,
who found out their beloveds were surrounded by grave danger
from a twenty second news clip.
There should be a reckoning
for the resident assistants who didn’t return,
abandoning the vulnerable,
who were told to assist with showers,
face to face,
drowning in a mist of shared breath and mutual fear,
clothed in black garbage bags,
after being told that no protection was needed so none would
be given,
Whose first grader has no trusted adult to help them log into
their Zoom classroom,
Who wept in the arms of coworkers, afraid for a husband
who received a lung transplant just the year before,
Who felt rage at the lack of choice
between food or increased viral load
for their young son with sickle cell anemia.
There should be a reckoning.
But for whom?
Plymouth Magazine 9
