How Do We Thank Each of You? Let Me Count the Ways
On the Occasion of The City University of New York Day of Commemorating Those Who Died During the Pandemic
How do I thank you? Let me count the ways—
Thank you—you bandaged my granddaughter's knee when she fell off her cousin’s skateboard.
Thank you—you responded to a two-alarm fire.
—stewed ropa vieja for my birthday.
—grilled teriyaki for a New Year’s Day feast.
—stirred a martini at the Irish bar in Forest Hills. And, for my husband, poured a double-Jack-rocks.
—you gave me a warning—and not a ticket—for speeding.
—boosted me—twice.
—checked my temperature, my blood pressure, my heart, my lungs.
—walked my terrier when I taught late nights.
—cleaned my dusty rooms.
—shoveled the sidewalk.
—duplicated my photographs.
—sold me a winning $1 scratch-off lottery ticket.
—packed the grocery bag I brought from home. Gave me change.
—taped signs on my office door when I was running late.
—stopped traffic for an old stray dog.
—fed the elephant in the zoo. Fed the shark in the aquarium.
—you rescued a kid from the branches of a tree. He was, maybe, six.
—didn't take movie tickets for months. And then, you checked my vaccination card and greeted me back.
—shared your sandwich in the employee lounge.
—spared a dime in the '80s. And, last year, spared a fiver.
—performed cartwheels on the F.
—apologized after plagiarizing a paper on Emily Dickinson.
—wrote an in-class poem about the uncle you lost at the Tower North, 9/11.
—stated your pronouns are they/them.
—stated your pronouns are she/her.
—suggested we state our pronouns.
—taught my neighbor neuroscience. Virtually.
—taught my neighbor's child statistics. Virtually.
—gave my neighbor her first job at the local pizza parlor.
—balanced a budget.
—delivered sushi. A gyro. Steamed dumplings.
—translated for your grandparents in the ER.
—worked overtime to fix a computer.
—asked a guy on the bus to please wear a mask.
—told me to choose a nail polish color. Suggested, Midnight Magic.
—left cans of fruit on the porch when I was quarantined.
—immigrated to flee tumult in your neighborhood, and sold roses to my uncle.
—delivered a meal tray to my neighbor, with a poem on it. A sonnet by Elizabeth Barrett Browning that opens with the line, “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.”
You. You. And, you.
You died from the corona virus. In 2019. 2020. 2021. 2022.
