Last Day of Quarantine
Awhile back, journaling felt exhausting. So I turned my monotonous day into a poem.
I've been curious about poetry lately. (But it was before Taylor announced her new album, I swear.) I’ve been trying to flex that muscle by noticing the small moments around me that can sometimes feel poetic.
Maybe to motivate myself to keep trying, or maybe I just didn’t have any new writing to share this week — but here’s a poem I wrote a couple years ago.
I wrote this on — you guessed it — the last day of quarantine. I got Covid for the very first time at a New Year’s Eve party ringing in 2022 (worth it, great party). It was at the height of one of those variants I can’t remember now. Omicron? Delta? Southwest? Whatever it was, it hit me HARD. I was pretty sick for about 3 weeks.
The thing about quarantining in the dead of winter as a single parent is that every day is Groundhog Day. I was trapped in this weird time loop where taste and smell and screen limits didn’t exist. It was just me and a 7-year-old and a bunch of nothingness. The outside world was still.
Just as I was about to lose my sanity, I was inspired by my friend Michelle (shoutout!) who happened to be in the very same time loop herself. We both got Covid at that epic New Year’s Eve party, and she was hanging on by a thread just like me.
And what did she do to survive commemorate her last day of quarantine? She wrote a poem about her day.
So I did what any good friend does: I promptly stole her wonderful idea.
I wrote this poem throughout the day in real time, turning my boring daily tasks into jaunty little poetry lines. And low and behold, it got me out of my funk. It turned out to be a playful and cathartic exercise in being present and delighting in the monotony.
Turns out, a simple poem with no real structure is a clever way to record your day — an alternative to journaling when you’re needing a creative outlet. When a paragraph or even some bullet points feels too overwhelming.
Your day can be a poem, who woulda thought.
*Please note: I am not a poet. I know nothing about poetry structure, rhythm, cadence, any of those types of words. Don’t come at me.
Last Day of Quarantine
I wake up with a NyQuil hangover,
which just means I slept great
and didn’t want to get up yet.
But the girl needs breakfast,
and the dog needs his meds.
I make her oatmeal;
I eat a stale bagel with cream cheese.
Is my taste is coming back?
Maybe.
I dole out vitamins and medications for all.
I make my first Wordle guess.
I make coffee.
Second guess.
Can’t smell it.
Third.
Pour the coffee.
Fourth.
Can't taste it.
Five green letters — got it.
I send my score to the family text thread,
a new morning tradition.
I sit back at my puzzle,
right where I left it late last night.
It’s Yoda, a borrowed puzzle.
I don’t know much about Star Wars.
But it’s been a challenge: no hard lines.
It’s all a blur.
Familiar it feels.
I put in one AirPod and a podcast
about a catfishing boyfriend.
This will help me trust men in my dating life.
Wait, what dating life?
I organize the puzzle pieces by shape.
I’m at that stage.
Play.
Poppy starts her first movie of the day.
Then moves on to bracelet making.
I stop puzzling to help her tie the knot,
But I drop it.
Pause.
Beads all over the floor.
Beads all over Yoda.
We pick them up and start again,
both suddenly annoyed with the other.
Rewind. Play.
Now the beads aren’t fitting in the container,
and the container won’t close.
She’s boiling over, about to spill.
Pause.
We decide to move the beads to a ziploc.
Crisis averted. Just barely.
We’re all hanging on by a thread.
Rewind. Play.
I finally finish the puzzle.
I can’t bring myself to put it back in the box.
I answer some emails.
I scroll.
I drink cold coffee.
Pause.
I make her lunch; take her requests.
Play.
I announce my retreat to the basement
to play with clay.
Mommy Time.
She starts another movie, Toy Story 3.
I throw 7 small bowls, but I feel rushed.
The bowls show it.
News of a broken wand is yelled down the stairs.
Pause.
I’ll fix it in a minute, I promise.
I can do one thing at a time.
Play.
I clean up and cover the wonky bowls to dry.
I want ice cream, she requests.
Pause.
Ice cream sounds good.
I scoop for two.
Play.
It is my lunch.
I scroll.
I unload the dishwasher.
I eat some chips, and I can almost taste them.
I start the water for an afternoon bath.
Bedtime Mommy won’t have the energy,
planning ahead I am.
Wash, dry, lotion, pajamas again.
Pause.
Scrolling again, ceramics this time.
I feel better about my 7 wonky bowls.
Play.
They caught the cat-fisher. But no motive.
Who’s going to make dinner?
Me again.
I need motivation:
French music, light a candle,
use a different burner than my usual.
The girl orders tomato soup,
the kitchen staff gets to work.
The candle is working in my Parisian cafe.
Pause.
We dine to a new show about painters.
It inspires us;
we break out the watercolors.
One more episode, one more paper.
This creative moment seems to redeem the day.
Bedtime at last: brush teeth, trash out, dishes.
Routines restarting.
Lights out.
Alone again.
One more episode.
Play.