Computer on my lap, I sit in my writing room, participating in a Zoom meditation group. Over a hundred of us from around the globe gather every morning for half an hour. We tune in from bedrooms, kitchens, back porches—strangers, who share intimate spaces.
After we stir out of silent contemplation, some offer up joys and sorrows to our collective consciousness.
A man’s face grows larger on my screen, as he leans in to his computer’s camera, a murky room in the background. Lines crease his face.
“Hospice nurses,” he says, “are usually very good at their jobs.” He touches his cheek. “And today … they tell us this is Thomas’s last day.” He takes off his glasses, wipes his eyes, and then sags back into the shadows.
I sag, too. His absence leaves me in suspended animation until the meeting ends.
I carry the laptop to the living room where my yoga mat is already rolled out, sandwiched between the couch and a bookcase. In the virtual class, the teacher directs us into tree pose. I tighten abs, engage the muscles in my left thigh and calf. My left foot is firmly planted. Stretching toward the ceiling, I’m a redwood, or at least a birch. Toward the end of class, she tells us to lie on the floor. My lower back kinks—an unexpected ache.
And this is Thomas’s last day.
In the kitchen, I pour cereal into a bowl—whole grains, fiber, and protein, according to the box. I eat it because it’s sweet and crunchy, like kettle corn for breakfast. I wash down vitamins with a glass of orange juice. It’s a noisy meal in the early morning quiet. Spoon clinks against bowl; crunch explodes inside my skull; orange juice glugs down my throat.
And this is Thomas’s last day.
Our master bathroom is barely big enough to fit the shower stall, and even then the translucent doors don't slide open their entire width. I turn on the shower, starting the water on it’s long trip from the water heater. I stick my foot under the stream, a cat who doesn’t want to get her paws wet. The bar soap lathers into a whipped cream froth. The scent of lavender rises in the steam. Lavender lulls me into a sense of well-being. As the foam slips down my skin and swirls into the drain, I bend forward to let the water pound my lower back.
And this is Thomas’s last day.
I drag the hamper out of a closet. It’s heavy. Clothes weigh a ton, and require all this upkeep, week after week, year after year. I toss jeans into a pile, but there aren’t enough to make a full load. I go scavenging for more laundry and add a thick velour bathrobe to the pile. Descending three flights to our unfinished basement, I traverse varying terrains: fuzzy bedroom rug, smooth hardwood, spongy linoleum. At journey’s end in the basement, the unforgiving concrete floor shocks my slipper-clad feet. Leaking through a crack in the foundation, tears of rain trail down one of the walls.
And this is Thomas’s last day.
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