TOUCH POINTS
by Ying Ang from Sydney, Australia
History is being made, divergent courses being formed in the experience of humanity and we are all here, caught in the eye of it. History is mined from the data of local experience. The butcher, the housewife, the paramedic, the student. Generals use strategy to draw enemy lines, but what remains, the true thrust and parry of every battle fought, are those recorded in the trenches.
I go outside and breathe in deep. Feel my chest expand outwards and chant to my young son, “in through the nose and out through the mouth”. We run between the trees. There seem to be more birds than usual. The grass seems higher, wilder. A miasma of worry cloaks these walks and I wonder if it is just a matter of time before I lose someone I love. As Shübi sleeps in his room tonight, I will imagine his little, robust lungs, pink, clear and healthy. I think of my father walking through another park in another part of town. I miss squeezing him tight. I wonder if my friends are ok, circling their homes, hunkered down in front of the news, working out recipes that involve a couple of rationed cans of beans.
Birthdays pass without fanfare. The gardens smell fecund.
I sit a distance from my parents as we surreptitiously meet at the park for some “exercise”. It is only my son that is really exerting much energy, hiding behind trees, counting down from ten as he peers through his splayed fingers. We sit several meters away from each other, not talking much, pretending to be strangers and taking comfort in the sight of each other.
I’ve never been so mindful about my breath before. We’ve been looking at masks, reading about makeshift materials - what works and what doesn’t work. Someone stood at the entrance of the elevator and coughed on us the other day, without covering his mouth as the doors opened. No where to turn and nothing to do but stare in horror and step around him out to the foyer, mind spinning with the image of uncountable microscopic particles entering our bodies and the sound of rolling die. So now we wear masks whenever we have to leave our building. Inhaling the hot air of our own breaths, rapid-fire heartbeats as I carry my son so that he doesn’t press buttons whilst hefting groceries at the same time. We walk in the door and I drop everything to scrub our hands, gulping down big lungfuls of unfiltered air.
I did yoga today and at the end of it, lay on my back in corpse pose. Body weight and haptic pleasures. The entire length of my body resting on the earth, my chest sinking into my back, sinking into the ground. It brought me to an older place, when I was younger, more vulnerable, and held in a circle of safety by my parents. Then I remembered that touch was unsanctioned now. What will be the cost of the absence of embrace for months at a time for those who live alone? If not a body, what about a palm? A cheek? And for the elderly amongst us, the loss of their grandchildren and the reciprocal reassurance of little arms around bowed necks?
Heart like a white-knuckled fist.
