My arse is growing fatter.
In plague times, at least us privileged beige people
but also some privileged brown and pink ones
still get to eat toast in the sun slathered with peanut butter.
I have eaten a jar of peanut butter in the last few days.
though I prefer not to look at how many calories
there are in any jar of peanut butter, Ma. I am keeping
myself focused on numbers concerning those who
died yesterday or those dying or soon to contract
the symptoms associated with our pandemic guest, numbers
far higher than the calories in peanut butter, but not much more.
A few months ago, who could have imagined a number
more scary than the calories in a tablespoon of peanut butter?
Now we all can, and since I last looked, it turns out to be just one
which for you or I would equal nothing if subtracted from
something like the viral load of an illness destroying our lungs.
And even then that is preferable to some minus, especially
minus you, the negative number I ponder more and more,
more painful than any other figures I’ve yet to imagine,
more painful than a million jars of peanut butter,
a trillion even. Let those noughts stretch around the earth and back again
while I toodle off to make myself another cup of tea.