SARAH WALKER

LEARNING TO NOT KNOW

For The Big Issue

I am waiting for the results of my third Covid test. I haven’t left the house in eight days. I am staring at the dog. The dog is staring at me. ‘Come here,’ I say. He stretches, lets out a derisive huff, and pads out of the room. My legs are cold. There was a time, before, when my coming home sent him into raptures. He would follow me around until I sat, then rest his head on my lap, gazing at me with breathy adoration. My partner wanders in and sees the deranged glint in my eye. I look at him with terrible gravity.  ’The dog hates us,’ I say.

Everything is out of control. Time drags on forever each evening, and then shoots by in enormous hunks when my back is turned. I begin to stare suspiciously at the calendar on the fridge. I float in a haze of anxiety. I stand in the middle of the living room, unsure if I am hungry or tired or bored. I make a resolution: if I cannot make the world certain, I will make myself certain. I will be decisive. I will form good habits and put down roots.

I tape a running plan to the fridge. My feet make a metronome of the pavement. I wear a mask during the walking intervals, and pull it down when I run. Sweat pools into the fabric. When I inhale, I can taste salt. I run through the heavy pain that starts to pool in my pelvis. I am probably just premenstrual, I think.

My partner and I drink a bottle of wine and speak seriously of the future. We decide to have children.

I wake in the night, shaking. I jam a thermometer between my lips. It turns out, I am just cold. I wake in the night, sweating. I jam a thermometer between my lips. It turns out, I am just sunburnt. I wake in the night. I flail around in the bedclothes, running diagnostics on my body. It turns out I just need to pee.

I vow to be a better friend, to lend care to the people I cannot see. I write letters on lined paper, and send them into the world, full of love.

I grow broccoli. We stir fry the tiny side shoots, little bouquets of green. I declare it the best vegetable. Months pass. Harlequin beetles stage brazen invasions. The plants wither and die.

My partner has to rescue me from a jog. He finds me crouched on the side of the road, gasping. An ovarian cyst has burst. I stop running.

We drink another bottle of wine and speak seriously of the future. We decide not to have children.

Return letters sit yellowing on my desk, unreplied to. Every message I send starts with the words: ‘Sorry it’s been so long.’

Bereft of cardio, I try yoga. My partner taps on the door. ‘Are you alright?’, he asks. ‘It’s just that you’ve been in child’s pose for…quite some time now.’

I plant rainbow chard. It thrusts beautiful leaves into the air. Insects ignore it. Even the snails leave it alone. I declare it the new best vegetable. In a year when we are all so vulnerable, it feels good to find one unkillable thing.

The recycling bin clinks when we put it out. We decide to figure out kids later. A few years, at least.

We leave the house for two hours together. For the first time in months, the dog is alone. When we get back, he vibrates with joy. He splays himself across our knees and rumbles with happiness.

On New Year’s Eve, we sit quietly in our living room, letting the night slide into the day. I make only one resolution: find the still in the storm. I choose a word for the year. The word is: grace.

There is a period of joy. I hold friends. I kiss my father’s cheek. I remember how to wield a camera. I photograph a festival show. It has been in development for two years. Even as I’m shooting the dress run, there are rumours. Phones are vibrating. The artists shove them to the bottoms of their bags. First the art. Then the chaos. The show ends before it can open. I have documented a thing that nobody will ever see. A ghost.

We are getting better at it. We really are. Friends ask, only half-joking: ‘which has been your favourite lockdown?’ I pull back my expectations. A little movement, a good meal. I am deciding to be indecisive. I am learning to not know. I walk the dog. He prances at the end of the leash. He climbs on the bed at night and snuffles his bulk between us. I ruffle his ears. ‘He doesn’t hate us after all,’ I say.