How to Cope in a Crisis

That day, I had planned to try my hand at homemade granola.
My sister had shared a handwritten recipe, and I’d ventured to the corner shop for ingredients.
But I had no desire to cook.
Instead, I demolished an entire packet of chocolate biscuits.
The quest for wholesome nutrition gave way to comfort eating—
interspersed with hand-rolled cigarettes
and coffee—
self-soothing, followed by self-loathing.

I tidied the house—arranged and rearranged.
Found the DVD I’d bought for us and set it aside for your return.
(We’d recently watched a film about P. L. Travers,
and you’d suggested we rewatch Mary Poppins—the original version.)

I had a bath. Washed my hair.
Styled it as best I could—
thinking ahead to the next day,
in case I needed to face anyone,
or leave the house—
wanting everything to be just so.
And in case it might be
our last video call.

I wanted to look nice—
pretty.

Distance, uncertainty, and the weight of time
wreak havoc on the nerves.
Thoughts—racing, spiralling.
Rational. Irrational.
Bursts of near-panic,
broken by domestic acts,
normalcy,
boredom.

I thought of Billy Connolly—
his mother’s well-worn words of wisdom:
“Always wear clean underwear,
in case you’re knocked down by a bus.”
(A woman after my own heart.)

I donned my emotional armour:
the baggiest of T-shirts
and my favourite sky-blue pants—
the most soothing of shades on the palette.

Built my fortress on the sofa with the cat,
in front of the TV,
in front of the news,
in front of the missiles.

I trawled the headlines—static.
Truths. Half-truths.
Pixelated prejudice. Propaganda. Pretence.

I reread your messages.
Again.

Then came the tearful pleas—
to leave,
to take your parents south to safety,
to try to reach the border.

To come back.
To come home.

Selfishly – for me.

And when the signals were severed—
the moment I realised I could no longer hear your voice,
– your face, I hadn’t seen in days –  
that I couldn’t reach you.
Couldn’t know where you were.
Couldn’t know if you were safe.

I danced.
Barefoot.
In the kitchen.
Ethiopian jazz—Mulatu Astatke—our latest discovery.
Those mesmerising, melancholic melodies—
a transcendent soundscape,
a refuge of safety,
of sanity.

I danced badly—
with dodgy rhythm and a dodgy hip—
but I danced nonetheless.
For you.
In your honour.
So as not to let the bastards win.

©emmalumsden 21.06.25