Wednesday, January 6th, 2021

Bright slogans cover the outside of the vaccination hut, one block inland from the seashore. I miss the entrance and go in through the wrong door. I find my way to the front from inside. The space feels warm and cheerful. The workers seem excited to help. They scan my health plan card and give me a number. The numbers go past quickly. When the automated voice calls mine, I am welcomed into a smaller area with booths separated by drapes. A nurse waves me in to one and peppers me with questions. We start in Hebrew but I quickly ask for English. I don’t want to guess what medical questions mean. Do I have any allergies? Have I had any shots in the past two weeks? Do I have a fever? Do I have the virus? She whispers the virus’s name, as if she doesn’t want to summon demons. Right or left? I don’t know what she means. She mimes writing. I do, too. I see that I’m writing with my right hand. Right and left confuse me. She gives me the shot in my other arm. After the initial pinprick, I feel nothing. She says to wait in the main area for fifteen minutes. I do. I read the wall in front of me, painted with wishes: That we might return to loving. That we might hug Grandma and Grandpa. That we might travel the world. That we might go back to doing what we love. When it’s time to go, I pick up a bottle of water and a fortune cookie: “Soon we will see our team win on the field.” A text message from the health plan tells us that anyone eligible who hasn’t been vaccinated yet should just show up here anytime in the next two days. I hear a worker say that they’ll be open 24/7. I walk along the beach as the sun sets. I carefully skirt the edge of the surf. A raven runs beside me, cawing in sets of threes. A tiny blond girl hops on one foot, pausing and balancing to pick up shells. One small puddle turns out to be deep. I get soaked up to my knees. After that, stepping in more water doesn’t matter.