Trojan

The dog wakes me earlier than I need. Wearing only glasses, I stumble downstairs, hide in the door’s shadow so the dog can go outside. I do not plan on being up yet. In the kitchen a light is on, and I realize it is already Monday. Monday, and my husband is smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee, waiting for the world to close around him.

I go to the sunroom, tell him hello. He must be shocked by my round belly and sparse thatch. We seldom see each other naked. Still, shock may be good for him, remind him life is earthier than we choose to remember.

He goes to work. The morning is mine. Today I want to clean. I want to own the house, claim its space. Sleep burns my eyes, lures me back to bed. A couple of hours and my mind will clear, my eyes will sooth. My husband naps on week-ends as he feels the call. Perhaps a nap will unfumble my morning.

I cannot sleep. No ease here. I turn on the computer. A postcard message waits for you, an e-mail says. I know better, and still I hit the URL, I don’t know why, too close to sleep, or maybe I want someone out there to be reaching in toward me. VIRUS pops up, quarantined. I knew better. The morning bottoms out; I have been stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid, I knew better, why did I do that, is the virus really trapped, have I infected the world, stupid, brought my friends’ computers crashing?

I remind myself there is no black hole. Virus, no virus, I have not destroyed the universe. Most days a person can be stupid and live. Today I will live. The house is mine. I will claim it, as soon as I read this letter my stepdaughter has sent, a letter from her soon-to-be ex-father-in-law.

Camellia this, the letter says, Camellia that, Camellia has burned the halls of the marriage of my son and you, he tells my stepdaughter. What do you think of this, she asks me. I am Camellia. Virus. Quarantine.

The house is mine. The house awaits. A woman arrives seeking a favor, only the favor she doesn’t need, it’s the wedge in my door, my house. Coffee she needs, and an ear, my ear, which she fills with stories of who has done what wrong, no need for me to say a word, virus, virus, virus. Quarantine.Lunch.

The soon-to-be-ex son-in-law calls. Tell her, tell her, tell her, I promise, please, please, must not must not must not. Virus. Quarantine.

Some days I am simply deaf and blind. Stupid in the dark. Earth-locked. Some days the world, like a hollow horse, bids me to invite the invader in. Quarantine. Some days I can do no more. I thickly wait, dumbly muffled, to wake up, to remember Love has saved us all.