Hour 4: Getting Back to My Roots

 

In the beginning, we treated it

like any other class

coffee cups in hand.

Snacks surreptitiously of to the side

while we typed private messages

alongside power point slides.

 

After the professor left,

I waited a beat

before asking if anyone else was breaking out.

Everyone laughed— we all were.

 

In these semi-darkened chats

we bonded

lounging in hoodies and pajamas

in our kitchens cooking dinner

or on our beds

maybe in an office

with the sounds of kids and dogs in the background.

And we all wondered about the girl with the blank green wall

behind her when she left the room.

 

We exposed ourselves in ways

we never would have, opening

our lives on a virtual stage, lamenting

unwaxed eyebrows

the snapping of acrylic nails

one by one.

None of us bothered to shave our legs.

 

I joked about the strands of grey

more and more obvious on high def screens

disguising my discomfort in the gap between 24 and almost 40.

My laundry is full of yoga pants, and I read to my kids

every night before bed.

 

The timeline of quarantine is measured at a rate

of approximately ½ inch of hair growth

per month.

 

I weigh the cost of my youth against the inevitable journey

getting back to my roots.