I will mourn when you have buried them. Meanwhile, don't expect me to lament
over paper tombstones of exponential statistics, over deaths that might occur. I will die, once. COVID 19 could be the cause, or its cousin viral pneumonia, or simply old age. At this vulnerable stage of my life, I do what I have done for years. I give my best, expect the worst.
Dead days settle in my grave, familiar companions waiting patient
for that reunion when all is past. The future? Nightless, lightless eternity.
If I am to be felled, let it be by a nobler adversary than a virus, this enemy I cannot see. Death would come, and after a struggle,
I would succumb with dignity. I have a fortnight's grace, fifteen days to take my place in the queue for the ICU.
I have already arranged my grave, selected the prayers I want read. The gardener knows which flowers I like. My son will twist, position my head to face the Ka'aba. Unprepared for life, I am better prepared to be dead. Ironically, securing a last resting place has been easier than booking a hospital bed.
22.3.20
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