The Pink Potion

She holds the syringe above my right arm.

Pink liquid glistens in the vial.

“Ready?” Her quiet voice is calm.

Her fingers grip a bit of my skin and muscle.

“Yes,” I barely whisper, a lump in my throat,

Also wanting to scream, cry, do a cartwheel. “Yes!” “Yes!”

Soon-- not having to live in fear!

Able to see my children, my grandchildren—in person!

To go somewhere—to a restaurant, a movie, a concert!

My immune system was on vacation for 11 months.

Nothing to do. White blood cells adrift,

Aimless in my blood,

No colds to conquer, no flu, no norovirus.

Abruptly, the foreign pink liquid invades secured vessels.

Muscle and skin pierced, bleeding within.

The vacation is over.

Militia musters its might,

White blood cells and platelets charge from capillaries,

Rushing toward the destruction.

White blood cells equipped to phagocytize intruders,

Macrophages, ready to engulf rebels. They find--

The pink potion.

They slurp up the viral mRNA

Lymphocytes march in from their bone marrow homes

To deal with mRNA presented to them by the ‘phages.

I can’t hear the shouts from the lymphocytes,

“We need more macrophages!

So much viral mRNA!”

But my body slows down to support the battle within.

Fatigue and an urgent need to rest.

My feet plod. My arms are jelly.

Helper T-cells, report for duty from my thymus,

And hook up with macrophages.

T-cells take and transport mRNA to B cells.

So mystifying, so complicated.

How do they synchronize, align,

Create the final formation?

I lie down, so tired, so very tired.

B cells envelop mRNA and make antibodies—

Antibodies, and more antibodies--so precious,

Lurking in my blood ready to obliterate that virus.

Covid-19, I’m geared up and gotcha now!