I got my second vaccination shot this past weekend, spent the day after nursing a sore arm and watching television, in the throes of something not quite like a hangover. The internet told me to expect the worst, as the internet usually does. I anticipated being laid out for 48 hours. Instead I had a headache, took two Tylenol, and then went for a walk. It was warm out, or maybe I was feverish, or perhaps it was a little of both. The burst of blossoms on the cherry trees outside felt almost aggressive, the lushness of spring in the northwest stunning after a grey winter. I had longed for it for months, and then it seemed to appear overnight.
Scrolling my social media, I see a stream of selfies; people receiving their vaccines, eyes smiling over their masks, a shirt-sleeve rolled up, something exceptionally vulnerable about that stretch of
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