The seventh week of quarantine. We work around and in and through this dilemma of being quarantined with a nervous hush; stepping tentatively. It still feels strange. I dream late in the night that I have spilled buckets of oil paint, heavy creamy paint all over and I can’t justify the cost and the waste. This storm must have come from somewhere. The rain must have come from somewhere when it rained. The wind must have come from somewhere when it blew and wailed around the edge of the house. But I have no answers. Only paint. That vanishes as I awake.
I drink coffee and begin absorbing my nephew’s bubbly morning chatter; an enthusiastic soul, this little boy. I sit at the table and I hear a lot of movement and thudding upstairs. My husband comes down and informs me he has completely changed the guest bedroom. I go upstairs and discover he is correct. All the furniture is moved around and resettled. It looks quite good. Even the bed is made up with the quilt lying neatly spread over the frame. My husband is bored.
Afternoon slides into cool evening, spring sun skips along the edges of brick and I step out into the parking lot after a brief stop at the grocery store. I claw the mask off my face. I can’t breathe when wearing it.
The mask makes my shopping trips short and choppy as I pull it off my face in order to take in deep breaths and keep replacing it while my glasses fog over. I scoot down an aisle, choosing what is on my list. I find a solitary bag of dish washer soap pods sitting on top of a shelf and even though it is not my usual brand, I grab it, dropping it into the cart. The cashier and I wish each other well, making small talk about the plummeting cost of gas. For the first time in years, I fill my tank to the top for under $25.
I drive home in silence. My world has become so small. I am tired of the same old fields but I do not believe God is tired as I drive and notice the wide patches of New York farm land as they unfold in moist abandonment. They wait for spring plowing and planting. Every plot is surrounded by trees and they feel close together and bare and tight.
Most dearly, I miss the endless stretches of western prairies. Those gorgeous open lands where we spent time in July and August. They remain forever as a backdrop to the lives we lead now. Slate blue skies studded with gray and black rain clouds rest easy on one side of the highway and robin egg blue skies with vanilla cotton candy clouds sail along the opposite highway length. There are miles and miles of sunflowers and gold copper meadows buried deeply under bales of shiny hay. The chocolate creamed cattle and coal black herds of angus brutes, stand silently as wind ripples their skins. They chew slowly and watch a lone water tower and abandoned railroad tracks far, far in the distance.
How removed I am now from those loping lands, and they are what I crave more than ever; their vibrant colors and waving, shimmering grain. I miss looking out at one hundred miles of everything and nothing.
I still see the white wooden planks laid so carefully, line by line, packed up against each other; the floor of the porch, which lay under white wicker chairs and couches with rosy flowery cushions and stacks of books. Rolls of carefully measured tin foil fitted neatly along glass windows and over window frames as the shiny aluminum did battle against searing heat. We could have fried eggs on those sizzling pieces of tin foil as they stared back at scorching afternoon rays. Fried eggs on vertical glass; magical and impossible. We believed anything was possible.
I drive one loop around the neighborhood to extend the ride. Two neighbors walk their dogs and wave. The animals are blissfully unaware, happy to be outside sniffing and looking around for anything and nothing. I enter the garage and lower the door. I am back inside, caught in between walls and life and memories.
690 Saint Paul 