January 1, 2021

From the Couch in my Garage

By Lilly Dickman

I’m writing this from a couch in my garage. There’s a heat lamp above me, a tapestry on the wall behind me, and white twinkly lights draped around the window beside me. There’s a rug, a coffee table, a heated blanket, even a mini Christmas tree. It’s a lovely setup, actually. My mom put the space together so that my friends and I could spend time with each other over our two month holiday break without putting the rest of our families at risk for COVID-19.  

I’m still wearing my pajamas. My face is riddled with acne, and I’m probably twelve pounds heavier than when I left for school. My twin sister is locked in her bedroom because she had a COVID exposure the day before coming home. My grandparents are in Palm Springs instead of at home in Chicago for the holidays; traveling is too risky. My entire dorm room is packed up in my garage with me, as the freshman housing contracts were terminated for second semester. I have herbal tea on my side table to treat the residual cough I’ve been stuck with ever since corona left my body weeks ago. My mom wants me to keep smelling the pumpkin candle in here because it’s supposed to coax back my sense of smell, which ran for the hills as soon as I tested positive.  

The image of my hot mess of a self, on a couch in my garage, overweight, oily, and sniffing candles, surrounded by scattered Dormify posters and bins, and separated from my family and friends, perfectly embodies the destruction that the year 2020 has left in its wake. I feel as though I’ve been blowing around in a hurricane for the past few months, beaten and bullied by obnoxious winds and rain, in and out of isolations, quaratines, and lockdowns, unable to stop to think twice. But now the storm’s passed, the waves have retreated, and here I am: washed up amid the wreckage on the couch in my garage.  

It’s actually a nice feeling, being washed up after a storm. I feel at peace and at rest. There’s no denying that there’s rubble and debris everywhere. Everything is mixed up and out of place—my grandparents are across the country, my dorm room is at home, my smell is out the window, and my couch is in the garage. But  my house is calm, and I like that. I had a yummy Thanksgiving dinner, with just my immediate family, where I was able to list more things to be grateful for than in any normal year.

During my last weeks at school, I had time to reflect, to look back and analyze my first semester of college, noticing all that I had been through and learned. But for the first time in a while, here in the quiet of the garage lounge, I’ve had the space to look forward and, dare I say it, feel hopeful. We have the promise of a new president and a potential vaccine. The gym won’t be shut down for much longer, attending my classes in a classroom will no longer be a health hazard, and I’ll be able to hug old friends and meet new ones with full views of their faces. Optimism is not in my nature, but I do believe we’ve weathered the harshest of the storm. Sitting on the couch in my garage with herbal healing tea in hand, the skies, and my skin, seem to be clearing. Through the window draped in twinkly lights, I can even see the sun creeping out from the clouds.