For Five Weeks . . .

This morning, for the first time, I donned a long-sleeved shirt.

For more than a month, I have worn only short-sleeved clothing—selected from a suitcase

Except for my ancient Timex, I have worn no jewelry, not even my wedding ring.

I have awakened to the sound of roosters, dogs, or traffic.

I have stepped outdoors into warm air, bright sun, and cloudless skies.

I have walked under nine-foot poinsettias, bright with blooms.

I have traveled by foot, bus, and taxi, while our van sat motionless in a Miami parking lot.

On the roads along with cars were walkers, bikers, motorcyclists, and horse-drawn carts.

Daily I have eaten beans or rice or fried plantains.

And also pineapple, bananas, and mangoes, fresh from the tree.

I have used hand-sanitizer before each meal.

I have disposed of bathroom tissue in a wastebasket.

I have been a member of a Caucasian minority.

I have spoken Spanish.

This morning I donned long-sleeves and a ski jacket, ordered oatmeal, in English, at McDonald’s, and departed in our mini-van.

West Virginia I-64, flanked hills of evergreens, has only cars and trucks.

Yesterday we drove in snow. This morning, the sky is grey.

Tonight, for the first time in a month, I shall take pajamas from a dresser drawer.

For better and for worse, I shall be home.