Green Lacewings

by Victoria Moffitt

I thought I would sit in the sun on my roof but the air out there was choked with tiny green bugs, unseen from just inside the window, but a swarm the moment I stepped outside. I thought they were aphids but aphids can’t fly. So I don’t know the name of my new winged nemesis. And I don’t know the names of the people dying in New York or the people driving the refrigerator trucks that hold their bodies. I thought I would walk into the bank to deposit my rent check but the line to get inside was 45 minutes long and quiet. I thought quiet was peaceful but the passing steps of passersby and the rustle they made in the air as they passed and phone calls muffled through masks made the quiet derealized, and the light in the square felt filtered and the dog’s wagging tail across the street seemed less solid than it should as I stood in a line spaced 6 feet apart and wondered if standing close would ever feel normal again.