In Retrospect: Epiphany in Wimberley

Betsy Joseph

March 24, 2024

In the second year of the Virus

we craved brief refuge from home

and silent neighborhood,

seeking safe weekend shelter

during that early Spring.

On the outskirts of Wimberley,

small central Texas town,

we read, hiked, enjoyed serene sunsets,

much thankful for the short reprieve

that lightened our hearts.

We masked in public places

as we had been doing the past year

protecting both others and ourselves,

all in the spirit of fairness and common sense.

And all went smoothly until it didn’t 

when visiting shops in the village,

planning to bring them some commerce.

What I construed as a strange remark

by one maskless shopkeeper—

that he did not appreciate patrons

who remained masked in his store—

escalated quickly when I did not comply.

All in a matter of seconds, it seemed.

Not offering a choice in the matter,

no, none at all, he continued to rail

as I remained stunned and masked.

I put back the item that had caught my eye,

turned back one last time in case he was jesting

(then saw clearly he wasn’t),

and quickly departed the scene.

I did take something from the store

that springtime morning after all:

a broader view of the infection

which this virus had wrought

that had morphed into anger and fear.

Betsy Joseph lives in Dallas and has poems that have appeared in several journals and anthologies. She is the author of two poetry books published by Lamar University Literary Press: Only So Many Autumns (2019) and most recently, Relatively Speaking (2022), a collaborative collection with her brother, poet Chip Dameron.