The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 91

Almost

Things almost feel like normal. Almost.

I spent the morning writing, sitting in the front yard. A year ago, I probably would have been at Biggby's on a Sunday morning while the family slept in. But the front yard --my home office-- has its own ambiance. The squirrels and the chipmunks gorged themselves at the birdfeeder buffet. I sprayed down with bug spray. My coffee got cold. I wrote for three hours and managed to pound out my demo for the upcoming Remote Learning Literacy Institute that I will be helping to facilitate over the next two weeks. It almost felt like a normal Sunday morning. Almost.

Later, a daughter and I went to VanAtta's to try to find some pepper plants and some corn, the only things I hadn't managed to find when I planted the garden in May. There was an employee there, counting people as we went in, in order to manage the numbers. There was a sign that said "absolutely no one admitted without a mask." I briefly thought that the girl at the door was a former student, but then remembered that I truly am faceblind when people are wearing masks. I have no idea who anyone is, when all I can see are the eyes and hair. Daughter and I looked for plants, but they only had landscaping left; no veggies anywhere. We settled for seeds that will never grow in time, tried to maneuver the cart around the plexiglass guards, raced after the packets of seeds when the wind picked up, and ended up giggling on the way back to the car about the clumsiness and ridiculousness of it all. It almost felt like VanAtta's. Almost.

For dinner, Michael and I decided to venture to the Mayfair. He had run by there earlier in the afternoon, and announced that the roof was open and not crowded. We grabbed our masks, some hand sanitizer, took a deep breath, and ventured out. It was difficult to relax into it at first. Sometimes, after so much togetherness 24/7, I wonder what else we even have to say. Michael was keenly aware of who was wearing masks and who wasn't. I was keenly aware of a lingering sense of guilt, like maybe we shouldn't be allowed to enjoy beers on the roof when the virus is still out there going strong, layered with a sense of exhaustion of the futility of it all, coupled with a profound sense of relief to finally --finally-- be outside, on the roof, having a beer, just like we would on any given night in the summer.  It almost felt like a normal summer evening. Almost. 

Now we are sitting by the fire, ankles coated in bug spray, having a nightcap. The dog is wandering around the yard, a great shaggy adventure muppet. The boxes and bags of returnables glint in the firelight, mountains of unreturned deposits that we'll probably donate in the next few weeks.  The bats are flying overhead; the sounds of cars driving by echo in the distance. The lawn is mowed.  The laundry is not done. I'm ready for the Institute tomorrow. It almost feels like normal. 

Almost.