Hey there, it’s me again. I no longer count the days and have lost all concept of time, which was merely a social construct invented by human beings and fictional to begin with. Today is Monday and also Thursday and Sunday all at once, and I woke up a few minutes or hours ago and therefore venture a guess that it may still be before noon but I would not swear my life upon it; it could very well be before sunset.
My eyelash extensions are falling off rapidly with every passing day, like petals off a flower, and everyone knows that flowers without petals are no longer flowers. My hair too, is a tragicomedy; I went to the salon some weeks before the shutdown, and gave vague instructions with not even a single reference picture, and now I have shockingly blonde highlights in my hair, somewhat reminiscent of hot Hawaiian surfers with frosted tips, minus the hot part and gloriously bronzed skin and streams of saltwater trickling down between the crevices of chiseled abs, of course; my stomach is as soft as a trampoline. On the up side, no-one shall see said tragicomedy; it grows ever longer with every passing day and I am practically Rapunzel now in my caged tower, minus the dashing young prince climbing up my tresses.
I returned briefly for a two week span to my parents’ abode and returned also to the chubby 10 year old of my youth again; my mother shook me awake every morning without fail at the wee hours of 9 am, fussed over my weight, prodded me to exercise more, and adamantly refused to buy me ice cream while grocery shopping.
I was 10 but also became 27; my grandmother called me, wishing me a happy birthday and telling me that she couldn’t die until I found a good man to marry, like she did so many years ago when she told me she couldn’t die until I graduated high school, then college, then found a job. I quipped that I shouldn’t ever get married then, and hung up after some happy minutes. My grandmother will live forever. After hanging up, I congratulated my mother for taking this whole affair quite well; after all, in the early days after 3/11, my tech-no-savvy mother had created a Twitter account to tweet to President Obama in desperation — I cannot describe to you what my 17 year old self felt upon logging onto the family computer and seeing the long stretch of her anonymous Twitter egg icon tweeting at Obama for help. “He’s never gonna read your fucking tweets, Mom.”
But all of a sudden she begins to shake, tears falling down her face and she asks, what if she dies? What if she won’t be able to travel to attend the funeral, to say goodbye for one last time? What if she never sees her again? And all I can do is tell her to stop being so ridiculous and shove a box of tissues at her, because she promised me she wouldn’t die until I got married and she’s made good on on her promises so far and I will never get married in order to keep her alive.
I return to my apartment and return to being newly 27 again. I purchase a hot pink yoga mat and attempt to touch my toes and subsist on takeout from my favorite places and take long, aimless walks and feel the edges of my body become fainter with every step. More than anything, I long for someone to look at me, to really look at me, and hold me tightly so that my blurred outlines take shape again. I miss you more than anything, but I don’t know how to tell you anymore.
On the up side, my grandmother will live forever and I own 18 rolls of rose-scented toilet paper and I cancelled my gym membership.
I hope you’re safe and healthy. I hope we meet again.