I lay on my side on the couch, my face centimeters away from a plate of canned green beans, every cell in my body shrinking in decay, my bones disintegrating.
My arms, functional just yesterday, are useless sludge. I heave one hand up and push a few green beans into my mouth without moving my head, resting before I am able to chew.
A fork sits outside my line of vision, so it does not exist. I am spectral. This is long COVID after a year and a half. My husband comes in, carrying an armful of books from the library.
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