"We do not know our own souls, let alone the souls of others. Human beings do not go hand in hand the whole stretch of the way. There is a virgin forest in each; a snowfield where even the print of birds' feet is unknown" (Woolf, 12).
The drive is remarkably unremarkable. The music blares from the speakers, playing Taylor Swift’s latest hit. The sun slants up from the horizon, illuminating the flowers opening on the trees I pass. The cherry blossoms erupt in bursts of faint pink next to the road, cheerful forsythia bushes spread their bright yellow blooms to the sky, while the lilacs begin to show the first hint of periwinkle amidst their new leaves. The morning light infuses everything with a glow, with hope, with a sense of possibility. I can almost forget the reality until I pull into the Winco parking lot and switch off the car.
The silence is overwhelming. The cacophony that would usually assail me from the backseat is absent. As I get ready to get out of the car, the pressure settles back around my shoulders, an almost physical weight. My stomach knots into a kind of fear that grocery shopping never used to elicit.
I reach for my mask on the passenger seat, after scrubbing my hands with hand sanitizer, aware of each place my fingers touch. I grab the elastic and tuck it behind my ears, pinch the top around my nose, then tuck it underneath my chin. I breathe in, noticing a faint, unidentifiable scent carried by the mask. It is not an innately bad smell, but it contributes to the sudden feeling of panic, like claustrophobia, that the mask induces.
I get out of the car, unusually aware of my physical body. I am aware of the way my eyes move above the mask. I am aware of the people around me, constantly monitoring the space between us. Who wears a mask? Who doesn’t? What does my mask communicate to others? I am aware of my breathing; I have to remind myself that the mask is not actually restricting my oxygen intake.
I am aware of everything I touch, constantly monitoring my instinctive impulses to touch my face, my phone, my mask.
I am aware of my inability to smile at those around me. Those around me in masks look scared, reflections of myself. There is a barrier between us, thicker than a simple mask.
Am I newly aware of that invisible barrier? Was it there all along? Will it be torn away when the masks come down?
Works Cited
Woolf, Virginia. "On Being Ill." Paris Press, 2012. pp. 3-28.