May 18, 2021

My dearest,

You pack your bag, making sure you have your passport and your wallet. I remind you to bring a thermos of water. You nod, and tell me you’d be wearing two face masks, one layered over the other for safety.

You’re only going for your orthopaedic follow-up, for your tennis elbow, but these days every trip outside of home feels like an event. Something to plan for. Proper precautions. The whole shebang.

It’s a trip you’ve undertaken before, yes, but before it was always with me accompanying you. I’d double check and nag, we’d call for our ride and we’d either be looking out the windows of the car or checking our phones until we reach Sukhumvit.

We know our way around the hospital, where the registration counter is, how to cross between buildings. I’d sip on water and watch the telly while I wait for you. And when we are done, and we have taken your medicine, we’d walk to the other side of Sukhumvit, past the Japanese restaurants and bakeries, to our usual brunch spot. A reward for a tiresome hour or two at the hospital.

But it’s never that tiresome, not when I’m with you. Which is why this is worrisome and wearisome, me here and you there, going for your check ups alone. I hold my breath every time till you’re done and home safely; it’s as though my not breathing guarantees your well being. And that’s fine by me.

Get well soon, my dearest. And when the world is in a better place, we’d go for our walks again, in gardens and in parks, in the streets of busy cities, hiking the trails winding up mountains, strolling by the shore, the beaches and the oceans and the skies just as we did before.

Yours, ever and always.