I shoot upright in bed and my heart races out of my chest. My eyes adjust to the darkness and I realize I am home in Michigan. The cool air rushes in through the window and my husband lies near me. We haven't traveled in 5 months. We are in quarantine.
The bass of the music sets the tempo for my heartbeat and the sway of my hips. The cool citrus taste of my vodka soda with lime rushes over my tongue as I take the last sip. The cool New York night air rushes through my long wavy hair as I turn to my friend, K, as we laugh and dance and blow off the inviting glances of two men from the opposite side of the roof top bar.
I'm covered in sweat and I'm back in my room. I'm shaking from the time hop and crushing reality. It has been more than 2 months since I have hugged a friend or danced in a bar. We are still in quarantine.
The rickety, spinning ride swoops up and pauses briefly at the top and I catch a quick glimpse of the hundreds of peanut festival goers playfully scattering below. The ride quickly descends and my colleague shrieks with delight. Tears of laughter stream down our faces as the wind whips around us. We return safely to solid ground and laugh until we can't breathe.
I gasp for air and throw the suffocating covers off of me. My eyes dart quickly around the room. There are no festivals, there is no work travel. We are in quarantine.
My son rushes toward the water, buckets in one hand, a shovel in the other. He drops to his knees and begins to dig. I smile and spread a blanket on the sand and open my book. His periodic giggles are my soundtrack. The early morning chill off the Atlantic ocean triggers goosebumps up and down my arms and legs.
Chills cover my body as I reach for the covers and tuck myself back in from yet another startling wake up into life in quarantine.
In the daytime, I understand the reality of the pandemic. In the daytime, I can comprehend the new normal. In the daytime, I am grateful for all that we have and avoid clinging to what was.
But in the nighttime, I chase memories.
