One year ago.
Today.
My 13th birthday.
My mom and I drove
over to my grandparents
house, we walked up the stairs.
Inside, my grandmother,
my mom and I, three generations,
sat down at the kitchen table.
My grandma handed me a plump card
I tore it open with a smile already pulling
at the corners of my lips.
Out came the card, and out came
a small blue pouch holding two gold heart earrings.
I smiled and remembered my newly pierced ears.
That was back when pain meant the slight throb
where the needle had pierced the soft skin of my earlobe.
Not the death of millions.
That was back when we breathed the same air
without fearing for our lives, back when
commercials weren't about how safe and clean something was.
Back when I only stayed home from school because
I was coughing so hard I couldn't concentrate.
Back when we joked about having covid.
That was back when life was normal.
Just one year ago.
Can you even imagine that?
Today.
My 13th birthday.
My mom and I drove
over to my grandparents
house, we walked up the stairs.
Inside, my grandmother,
my mom and I, three generations,
sat down at the kitchen table.
My grandma handed me a plump card
I tore it open with a smile already pulling
at the corners of my lips.
Out came the card, and out came
a small blue pouch holding two gold heart earrings.
I smiled and remembered my newly pierced ears.
That was back when pain meant the slight throb
where the needle had pierced the soft skin of my earlobe.
Not the death of millions.
That was back when we breathed the same air
without fearing for our lives, back when
commercials weren't about how safe and clean something was.
Back when I only stayed home from school because
I was coughing so hard I couldn't concentrate.
Back when we joked about having covid.
That was back when life was normal.
Just one year ago.
Can you even imagine that?
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