Day 10 and a Half

Rachel Maddow ended her show last night  in tears.  Rachel has been one of the most passionate advocates for pandemic awareness.  She and her colleagues were hit hard by the Covid-19 death of Larry Edgeworth, a 61-year-old audio engineer at MSNBC.  He was charismatic, a husband, a father of two, and friend to all of them.  A name, a face, not a number.

When you hear a  person crying over the death of a friend, it's impossible not to cry with her, as impossible as it is not to dance when listening to music, if only with one foot.

*****

We are all doing the only thing we can do right now to slow the curve.  Those of us who can stay "sheltered in place." Maybe we read or crochet or watch movies.

But some of us work out in the world.  Some of us live on the streets, unemployed.  Some of us are grieving the recent death of someone we love. Some of us are depressed.  Some of us are home-schooling children or caring for grandchildren. Some of us are aching to see our grandchildren and can't.  All of us are sad and anxious, then okay, then sad and anxious, then sort of okay again.  Some of us are children, confused and stressed.

I say "us"--because right now, we are all in the same big rocky boat.  What happens to one could happen to any.  If ever national borders and walls seemed irrelevant, it's now.  We are not The U.S. as much as we are US, all pieces of one humanity.

*****

This morning, I decided to end my daily trips for a fountain coke, just got in the car and rode around and called Carlene, trying to hold back tears.

She assured me she is not going anywhere, not even visiting outdoors with the neighbors, and she exuded her usual calm, loving, practical energy.

"We are lucky," we said.  "We have each other."  And we have emails and phones, we said.  And comfortable houses to shelter in place in.  And things to make.  (She's crocheting an afghan, organizing prescription orders, and listening to music. )

I stopped at the elementary school to snap this picture and read it to her:

Then I stopped in front of Barbel's former house on Harrison to snap this one, the yard vivid with poppies.  I fondly recalled delicious meals and lively music shared at her purple table.

*****

Gluing snippets of paper, I was thinking what a mosaic each life is.

We often wish we had more time to finish certain projects, but today I'm thinking, "Be careful what you wish for!"

"I should clean up all this mess," I thought, trying to make almond bread around papers and paints.  "In case somebody comes...."  (Nobody is coming.)

Those of us recording the details of these days are making stories for later.  Telling stories and making things is a sign of hope, that there will come a day when we're on the other side of this and the people we love are okay.

I just talked to Will's family on the phone. They are out buying food for the lizard and horses and dogs and waiting for Nathan's starter ant-farm ant to lay eggs.  I tried to sound cheerful (I think I pulled it off), but then had to cry when I hung up.

*****

It's a rainy day in Texas.  The trees and yards around here are reminding me that it's spring.   It's spring, anyway.  It's spring, in spite of everything.