Years from now some greatgrandchild yet unborn
Will pull it from a wallet
Soft and fraying, the writing nearly faded
And ask what is this for Gran?
Too large to fit with the now-archaic credit cards
The child will have pulled it
From a forgotten pocket
The type at the top
And two numbers, scribbled in ink
That proved that I could hug my daughter again
And I won’t be able to explain
I hope I won’t be able to explain
Like asking my own grandparents
“What did you do in the war”
What it felt like, locked in, covered
Six feet from everyone
The disintegrating card, stiff and vital and inconsequential
In its ordinariness
Just a little card trimmed from a full sheet
For three hundred million of us
Less the half-million who died
Carried like a talisman
in case anyone asked
Proof that we hadn’t died
That we wouldn’t die
Not from the ‘rona anyway
Not today

Plague Series #61
NaPoWriMo 2021 Day 16

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