If I could tear April out of its binding, neatly, at the seam, so that March and May would be none the wiser, I would. April has been the chewing gum forever latching on to my shoe sole, the ring on the coffee table, the umbrella pulling into the sky, inside out, while I’m scrambling to run from a thunderstorm. I wish I could fold it into an origami plane and flick it away into the starless sky holding all of the disintegrated hopes of this pandemic.
I am so glad it’s over.
