We have been at home, in home, home, and confined to home, for one year. We have ventured out only to make sure our car battery was charged, to make sure the gas tank was full, and, well, that's about it. We are now 72 and 79, having each, of course, celebrated birthdays. I make an apology here for all the commas. But life is full of commas, semi-colons, and full-stops, and we just have to deal. We have been dealing.
We have binged everything from all British telly has to offer, and most of what Netflix and Amazon Prime provide. And way, way, way, too much news. And we have binged sleeping in, staying up late, eating whatever we can put together from what's on hand, and finally figuring out delivery for what we might want. I apologize again for all the commas. If, however, you need advice on how to obtain online or drive-thru accommodations, please let me know.
We got our vaccines by driving through. Twice. So now we are, as they say, pretty much protected, and good to go.
So we went out. Out of our home. Out to a drive-up, curbside-burger-delivery-provider. We ate our burgers, chips, guacamole, and fries, in the car. It was raining. The dogwood trees were in full pink bloom. We ate too fast. We watched the dogwood blossoms through the tears on our windshield. We stuffed ourselves on the inside and the outside.
We were glad to get home. That night I had big dreams, yelling-out dreams. My husband kindly woke me, and I went back to sleep. The following night I woke to find my eyes leaking tears. Allergies? Relief? Manifestation of deep sorrow? I can't tell you. I wish I could. I felt I was "drowning in a river of my tears," as the song says.
The next day we had our house cleaned by two ministering angels who know how to get into the corners and remove all the debris that accumulates because, you know, time. And we can do the basics of laundry and wiping up spills and the occasional sweeping, but it's never enough.
We like our own cooking. More now than ever before. We have learned new things about how to make do, savor, make sure we have what we need. We have been blessed with outside-distanced-masked-visits from family and close friends. We have treasured those, shivered through some, tried to fight mosquitos and heat in summer, wind in fall, rain in winter. We would do it all again and again and again just to see those masked faces, be in the company of those we love.
Now there is a hopeful future. It feels so alluring, and a little dangerous. Are we ready? Will we be able to move about and settle in to a different kind of now?
There may be dreams and tears. There could be anything out there. But now it seems time to hold on, buckle-up, and live as large as we can.
I apologize for all the punctuation. But, you know, punctuation is an indication of where you can pause, and take a breath. Make it a deep one.
