Covid Olalla Levi

Covid

I’d go to bed at four and wake up four hours later. Pulling at my eyelids, I’d reach for my computer and the orange sweatshirt that was situated on the oversling compartment of my bed. Its repulsive smell after days of wear would revitalize my senses, and I would quickly transform my bedding into the proper classroom setting. Lying stagnant for hours, I’d gently slide my finger from Chrome browser to Safari, logging on and off. The incoming spring breeze blew the lethargic days along as my hand’s firm grip would tighten around the parameters of my IPhone. Staying at home as much as I did, my mind would grow foggy and immature, and I’d voluntarily invite hallucinations, mere daydreams to fill my mind as I reimagined my bed as a desert island. It was all part of the game, the endless stream of faces and figures that seemed to exponentially ingest the pixels on my IPhone as the night moaned on. All day we lived at face value. There were no more embarrassments of first words or flustering teenage eye contact. It was the way your body curved on the post and in the mirror that caught their eyes, not the way you bloomed in social situations. As I stared at my hips’ width on the short walk from my bed to my desk when I retrieved my phone each morning, my brown, timid eyes silent, I’d admit to the imperfections I’d never noticed before. And yet, is it possible this time of reflecting was a gift?