If the coronavirus could speak to me, it would whisper in my ear: live again. No, not just that hurried living, rushing from appointment to appointment, eating a high caloric diet from some fast food joint on some stretch of spaghetti highway -- no, fool, LIVE! See the sunrise this morning and meditate, then exercise, eat a bowl of strawberrie, and marvel at this, your new life.
The coronavirus would tell me my life is precious, that every life is precious, that sand is falling through an hourglass --my hourglass, my life.
Coronavirus would say, help my neighbors, bring my elderly neighbors food from the grocery store, volunteer at a soup kitchen, tell family that you love them, as tomorrow is never a guarantee, but a wish that you blow on, like the dandelion you made wishes to long ago.
Lastly the coronavirus would say, live anew, for just today, for every day honor those whose spirits have left this earth too soon--my grandfather who fought in a war continents away, my father who marched against oppression, for my grandmother who wanted to pursue a college degree but could not because only men went to college in her family at that time. The coronavirus would stir me to life, gently at first, and then like a shooting star racing across a coal-colored sky--with wonder and glee, saying, "You, everyone, live anew!"