Do we need to debrief?
Is it the same as bitching and moaning and generally degrading the quality of our conversation?
Or is it a necessary process after going through something together.
And I mean, in some sense we didn't even go through it together. After all, you were in your living room, and I in mine. Or your bed and my wingback chair. Or my kitchen table and your couch. Maybe we were so the same, and not; and so together, and yet not; that we've forgotten. We've survived a scary near-apocalypse.
Don't get me wrong, I realize it could still happen. The virus is by no means over. I'm aware that in six months when the weather makes outdoor time more challenging, this may be a different world. But I was afraid I could catch it by running through a place someone had breathed hours before just ten weeks ago. So didn't we survive something? You and me. You in your Jeep and me hiking up a trail. Me in my barren Aspen grove and you in a waders in a stream?
When someone dies, you hug, you cry, you drink whisky and push the limits carefully on what stories you can tell to bring that person's essence into the room without devolving into something untoward. When someone makes it through a crash or a near-death experience, you usher them over to a spot, and sit them down, arm around them to steady them, and give them a drink of water.
If I tried to get you a drink of water though, I'd have to be sure I'd put a mask on first and warned you that I'd done so. That my hands were clean. I'd do these things out of consideration for you and your peace of mind. But then how it be ushering? How is it a coming together? There's no hug. (I don't even like hugging people I'm not related to; but damn, I miss hugging.)
Perhaps we need a summer debrief.
"Can you believe...?"
and "when I read that...."
And "when I saw that...."
And "did you see the woman who posted the silly walks?"
or "The student who set up a food drive?"
"Did you see the student cooking show?"
"Remember when I got attacked by the dog and was glad I had gloves on even though it wasn't that cold out because I coldcocked that dog and that's what saved me getting hurt."
"Did you see the chairlift graduation?"
"The granddaughter who built a doorway plastic shield with arms to let her hug her grandparents?"
Didn't you cry for the bodies put in trucks and lack of funerals? Didn't you hurt for the graduates whose grandparents didn't get to hug them? Did you feel relief when you didn't have to get your kids out the door in the morning? Did you watch your kids grow closer to each other as I did? Did it feel exquisite to have them all to yourself?
What hurt you? What brought you to the brink? When did you feel? What brought you back? Where were the helpers and how did they help?
Maybe we need a debrief.
Is it the same as bitching and moaning and generally degrading the quality of our conversation?
Or is it a necessary process after going through something together.
And I mean, in some sense we didn't even go through it together. After all, you were in your living room, and I in mine. Or your bed and my wingback chair. Or my kitchen table and your couch. Maybe we were so the same, and not; and so together, and yet not; that we've forgotten. We've survived a scary near-apocalypse.
Don't get me wrong, I realize it could still happen. The virus is by no means over. I'm aware that in six months when the weather makes outdoor time more challenging, this may be a different world. But I was afraid I could catch it by running through a place someone had breathed hours before just ten weeks ago. So didn't we survive something? You and me. You in your Jeep and me hiking up a trail. Me in my barren Aspen grove and you in a waders in a stream?
When someone dies, you hug, you cry, you drink whisky and push the limits carefully on what stories you can tell to bring that person's essence into the room without devolving into something untoward. When someone makes it through a crash or a near-death experience, you usher them over to a spot, and sit them down, arm around them to steady them, and give them a drink of water.
If I tried to get you a drink of water though, I'd have to be sure I'd put a mask on first and warned you that I'd done so. That my hands were clean. I'd do these things out of consideration for you and your peace of mind. But then how it be ushering? How is it a coming together? There's no hug. (I don't even like hugging people I'm not related to; but damn, I miss hugging.)
Perhaps we need a summer debrief.
"Can you believe...?"
and "when I read that...."
And "when I saw that...."
And "did you see the woman who posted the silly walks?"
or "The student who set up a food drive?"
"Did you see the student cooking show?"
"Remember when I got attacked by the dog and was glad I had gloves on even though it wasn't that cold out because I coldcocked that dog and that's what saved me getting hurt."
"Did you see the chairlift graduation?"
"The granddaughter who built a doorway plastic shield with arms to let her hug her grandparents?"
Didn't you cry for the bodies put in trucks and lack of funerals? Didn't you hurt for the graduates whose grandparents didn't get to hug them? Did you feel relief when you didn't have to get your kids out the door in the morning? Did you watch your kids grow closer to each other as I did? Did it feel exquisite to have them all to yourself?
What hurt you? What brought you to the brink? When did you feel? What brought you back? Where were the helpers and how did they help?
Maybe we need a debrief.
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