Quarantined

On a street, down the block, where the crow flies is a house with long old dusty curtains puddled onto the floor behind unyielding glass casements. The light struggles unsuccessfully to permeate the room competing with the stagnant air, both surviving in spite of the environmental hindrance beyond their control. She sits, alone and alive in the midst of it all, upon a worn recliner as if advanced aging was some prize to be won; with quarantine as her only saving grace, believing she is safe from what she knows lurks on the other side. Collectively and singularly she fears it is the Coronavirus lusting to write on the parchment of her death certificate. Coronavirus, the lethal label for the aged, she has heard, is spoken about from an open susceptible mouth reporting the bad news transmitting over the airwaves but in the end will not be her cause of death. When they finally remove her emaciated nutrient deprived body from the upholstery, and slide her into the body bag, she might have been happy to know she remained virus free until death. Cause of death, starvation, never even crossed her mind.