Just Breathe

20 or 19, Hugh hadn’t been half a puff into the vape pen before he nearly did himself in. It was rough as he left the hospital bed in a huff. Back to work as a hack, a grunt. Later, he would miss it. Hind sight is 20–20.

The work was a breeze until he started to wheeze, this time due to the virus that would eventually tire us. The sickness would spread as did the blame. Attacking his lungs, with each cough, he felt the constriction in his chest and back to the hospital he went. Lying in wait, he watched the news of the world debate, the pros and cons of sheltering in place. He watched businesses stifle. Fear invading our body politic. Not just nurses and doctors but everyone in a mask. Just breathe, he was told.

He gasped as George Floyd’s kneeled-on neck cried for his mother. Hugh felt a choke hold on this throat. Grasping the tube to his respirator, a stale miffle sighed from his mouth, pure oxygen flowing. A match ignited protests to Floyd’s murder around the globe. Under the pressure of the confines, vented the anger of injustice, and a wail for a brother. They might wear the mask but not the muzzle. Hugh took a tough inhale, then stale exhale. His lungs began to relax. Acquiesce to the air fed to him. His lungs repairing, his spirit releasing.

Hugh headed to a home in the hills. Ahhh, heat not hushed. Dry brush and flames gave rise to wildfires. Forests in demise stoked smoke into the air. Suffocating again. Muffling more cries. Just breathe, he sighs.