I could be anywhere, you said.
Anywhere, or nowhere.
You can only walk back and forth along a corridor, a ambulation to be precise.
I think of a church and its ambulatory.
Where one perambulated in the chancel behind the high altar. Off bounds.
Past a door to the world outside, off bounds, prisoner of an invisible coronavirus, a lovely name for such an insidious enemy, of the refusal of a muscle to heal. Past another door, past the small nightstand where you keep your medicines, your life line, then turn around and past another open door to a room that holds intimations of the world outside on a television screen.
Yes, you could be anywhere. Or nowhere. Philadelphia, New York. Rome, London. Moscow, Stockholm – although true, you’ve never actually been to all these places. So for others you are nowhere. For me anywhere is here. That you have been elsewhere is taken for granted. We have all been elsewhere. But what matters now, to you and to me, is being here.