I am the designated errand-runner in this time of COVID-19. A few days ago, before the mandate to stay in was made heavier, clearly stated, I made my way into our nearest Costco for a Prius-groaning purchase. Nothing that would come near a stock-pile, by any means. But more of some essentials to reduce the number of times I would need to go out. After all, I may be fit and vigorous, but I am just within the vulnerable-age bracket. On my way home, still a bit stunned to have spent as much as I did when there were two children in the household and so relieved that right now, at this time, I didn’t have to count down to the pennies to make certain the tab could be covered, I found myself slowing down to the speed limit. Even a little under.
The social distancing message was so well absorbed by my brain, I was trying to keep some sort of vehicular social distance in place.
When I got home, I filled my ready shelves and pantry until comfortably ready with variously shaped pasta and confetti colored beans, richly roasted coffee and finely milled flour, dependably active yeast and meltingly rich chocolate.
At my desk, sipping some of that coffee freshly brewed and steaming, I looked upon the rooftops of my neighbors’ houses, the distance strikingly safe and familiar. I am astonished by the accident of my birth; with gratitude, I turned to the naked screen. My words are not sufficient to my feelings, but I am compelled to make note of this passage, of writing in the time of COVID-19.
With my writing, there is no sheltering-in. No safe distancing.