Turkey

In between the news that had come and the news that was yet to pass, I drove hastily downtown to drop off my laptop on my last day of work. The speed limits were arbitrary; there was hardly any traffic to merit rules. I parked in the no parking zone. I stomped my boots as far into the ground as they could go, sending two weeks worth of anger and grief down into the crevices of the concrete, hoping they would find some answers there.

I trudged up to my office, empty and dark, and left a note on top of the laptop, along with my key. Everyone’s desk was left as if it were preserved in a thick layer of amber, and my heart swelled at the sight of people’s personal belongings. The things we keep at work to remind us of life: photos of people we love. Plants that somehow sprout under fluorescent lights. Quotes or sayings or cards from people with kind words. The little things that get us by.

Fortunately, these people are working from home, and business is still running as usual. And I am leaving of my own accord, whereas many people from many walks of life are now unemployed. This gives me something akin to survivor’s guilt, knowing that so many people have no idea what awaits them on the other side of this. And then I think: “is there another side of this?” I don’t trust that any of us know what will happen.

In the span of a few days, most people have lost things they don’t think to grieve. The illusion of control. A sense of stability. Many more are broken by the unseeable weight of things hidden in the dark of their own homes: exhaustion, fragmented relationships, depression. A sort of “cute” fear of being alone suddenly magnified into a Very New Reality.

And then there is the impossible pain of fearing for our loved ones without being able to see for ourselves that they are alright. The parent with a suspicious cough. The person you love in the hospital for symptoms they won’t test for. The term “underlying issues” thrown around as the ever-present way to say “but not YOU. Someone over there! Someone you can’t see! Someone who’s just unlucky.” What an unnerving thing to suggest. What a way to write off what we can’t ignore: that we are all vulnerable. That being human is an underlying condition.

Now the sound of sirens isn’t far off. Now the dying man in another country isn’t a problem you can ignore. Now it’s a ringing in your ear, in your home.

It’s the ache of being caught in a dream where you assure yourself the monster isn’t real but you can’t find any proof that it isn’t.

Driving home I speed just as carelessly as I did on the way there. At a stoplight I see a turkey on the road in the lane next to me. It walks toward me with fear in its eyes, and I’m taken aback that I can recognize the emotion so coherently. Looking fervently from side to side, it is being cautious. I feel so scared and sad at the same time. It dawns on me that I’m capable of getting emotional about turkeys, but I eat turkey, and in the middle of this symphony of thoughts a car trying to move through the stoplight lets out a honk. The car is honking at the turkey, but the bird remains frozen, looking at me questioningly. Turkeys don’t understand traffic rules or honking, and this is another ridiculous thought: the futility of honking at a turkey. The sorrow of issuing a warning that falls on deaf ears. I turn the corner — away from the scene — as horrible tears hang dripping from my face