Leaving the Hole

It's been more than a year in semi-lockdown, and I have to push myself to leave the hole I've been working and sleeping out of—the hole that is my bedroom, a kind of symbol of my libido, somehow both empty and bottomless. I know there is sun outside; I know it to be lovely, just as I know the woodcocks and catbirds are chirping; and if I close my eyes and open the windows, I can almost pretend I'm on a deck by the ocean, still alone.

The sun becomes a blinding reality once I bring myself to leave this apartment where I've cooked, comforted my children, and at another time, danced drunk with the lights off. Nine years and 1,025 square feet can hold a lifetime. It's not exactly what dreams are made of, walking out of my apartment. I'm bombarded with the vibrancy of a Brooklyn day in May. Wiping sweat from my upper lip, I look around to see if I'll wear my mask.

I can smell a weeping cherry tree and charred hamburgers as I shuffle past the neighborhood playground. I can't shake the thought that my white baby gasped his first breath a couple of hours before George Floyd's last was stamped out of him. There's a brown toddler giggling and rushing toward a bench, his arms reaching up for his mama. I'm reminded of something I heard during a session that morning: “I want a baby so I can raise a Black girl who loves herself.”

Up ahead there is a white mother. She is with her two children, one about kindergarten age who is running ahead, hiding behind a tree waiting to be found. Her older brother is slouching in a wheelchair, head tilted to one side, leaning toward his mother. It's an uneventful moment in their family, an ordinary Thursday after-noon, but this instant encapsulates the enormity of a potential future for me. I plow ahead, tears welling in my eyes, and cannot help but turn around to look at the boy again, only this time I see his arm reach down to spin the wheel. I realize he can push himself. How can the slightest movement hol