Today, Pulling the Carpet, My Lungs Begin to Burn
RENÉ SALDAÑA, JR.
March 17, 2020
Today, I am pulling out the carpet in the boys’ room. It’s cool outside, so I’ve got the window open to help with ventilation. I know from doing it in other rooms that there will be a fine dust, like silt, gathered, especially where we walk the most. No matter that we vacuum regularly, no matter that four times a year we wash it, the dust only seems to grow. As I’m pulling up the carpet, then the foam liner below, I notice this dust begins to cover my hands. I should’ve worn gloves, I tell myself. But I’m that guy: I’m well into a project and if it hasn’t killed me yet, well maybe next time I’ll wear protective gear: gloves, maybe my favorite blue pañuelo over my nose and mouth, bandido style. But not today. Today, I simply wash my hands more often and plug away. It’s work that needs doing. We’re putting down hardwood. I check my social media sometimes, and every time I do I read something new on the virus, and though I’m not among those most at-risk of contracting it (I’m in my early 50s, with now history of diabetes, heart disease, and, what’s the other? I forget), it strikes me that perhaps this work today is not the work I should be doing. I’ve been breathing in that fine dust, those micro-particles into my bare lungs, and my lungs are beginning to sting. Not quite burn, but I’m not a doctor, what do I know? For one, I don’t know if sting and burn are only remotely related, or close enough that I should be worried? Could I have caused damage to my lungs? The sort that could be described as “respiratory” in nature—the other factor I’d forgotten? I go online and search for answers. I shouldn’t have gone online. Now I know less than I thought I did before. I’m growing more anxious, but I don’t want to let on. I have a family: a wife and kids. What would they do if I got sick? What would they do if I died? I’ve built up a booty for them for just such an event. They’re set. They should be any way. But what if this pandemic takes a turn for the worse? What then? I can’t die. I’ve got to put these thoughts out of my head. But my lungs, they’re burning now. I’m well into the project, though. I can’t leave it undone. My boys’ll be sleeping in this infected room tonight and for every night after that that I don’t get this done. I wash my hands again, I fold that handkerchief into a triangle and tie it around my face. The steam from my breathing clouds my glasses, I find the dishwashing gloves under the sink. Put them on. Get back to work. Uneasy at first, but never the less, it’s work that’s got to get done despite the virus. Maybe, to spite it?
RENÉ SALDAÑA, JR. is an associate professor of Language, Diversity, and Literacy Studies in the College of Education of Texas Tech University. He is the author of several books for young adults and children, among them The Jumping Tree, A Good Long Way, and Heartbeat of the Soul of the World. His poems have appeared or are scheduled to appear in The English Journal, The Big Windows Review, and Inkwell Literary Review.
