Hidden Faces
Foster Trecost
Days on days pass and I don’t see another. Nobody wears them anymore. Maybe in hospitals, maybe airports, you might see them there. Or if you happen to cross my path. I’ve got my reasons, reasons the guy laughing at me wouldn’t understand. He doesn’t know what the mask keeps him from knowing and I’m not going to say anything. It wouldn’t matter, anyway, not to someone like him.
Before masks became mandatory, I never left the house. Sure, I’d sometimes wake with an urge to venture out but my reflection kept me homebound. Without changing from sleep clothes, I’d limp to the den where my daily dilemma awaited: TV or internet. Surfing, as it turns out, applies to both, but I longed for a third option: the front door. But that wasn’t really an option. In case I forgot, the mirror reminded me.
After the accident, no one thought I’d make it. Or more likely, because they could see what I couldn’t, they secretly hoped I wouldn’t make it. The thing about tires, they don’t mix with ice. Same goes for cars and trees. They could’ve made me more presentable but at my age, some things are easier to hide than others. So I left the scars and hid myself instead.
Then came masks. And with them, option number three became an option. Like everything, I ordered them online. Two days later, I tried one on. I looked from all angles, even upside down. No one would know. I’d appear as everyone else. Well, most everyone. Not the guy laughing at me. Thing is, even if I wasn’t wearing a mask he’d still be laughing, someone like him could find a flaw and I’ve got plenty. But all he sees is the mask. Nobody really wears them anymore, but I do. I’ve got my reasons.
Foster Trecost
Days on days pass and I don’t see another. Nobody wears them anymore. Maybe in hospitals, maybe airports, you might see them there. Or if you happen to cross my path. I’ve got my reasons, reasons the guy laughing at me wouldn’t understand. He doesn’t know what the mask keeps him from knowing and I’m not going to say anything. It wouldn’t matter, anyway, not to someone like him.
Before masks became mandatory, I never left the house. Sure, I’d sometimes wake with an urge to venture out but my reflection kept me homebound. Without changing from sleep clothes, I’d limp to the den where my daily dilemma awaited: TV or internet. Surfing, as it turns out, applies to both, but I longed for a third option: the front door. But that wasn’t really an option. In case I forgot, the mirror reminded me.
After the accident, no one thought I’d make it. Or more likely, because they could see what I couldn’t, they secretly hoped I wouldn’t make it. The thing about tires, they don’t mix with ice. Same goes for cars and trees. They could’ve made me more presentable but at my age, some things are easier to hide than others. So I left the scars and hid myself instead.
Then came masks. And with them, option number three became an option. Like everything, I ordered them online. Two days later, I tried one on. I looked from all angles, even upside down. No one would know. I’d appear as everyone else. Well, most everyone. Not the guy laughing at me. Thing is, even if I wasn’t wearing a mask he’d still be laughing, someone like him could find a flaw and I’ve got plenty. But all he sees is the mask. Nobody really wears them anymore, but I do. I’ve got my reasons.
