It is Sunday, March 29, 2020. I slept in until about 8:00 a.m. Drank coffee, ate GF cereal with unsweetened almond milk with a cup of black coffee. I did my usual morning routine of journal writing, reading the Detroit Free Press, checked Twitter, and wondered about my day.
My husband called me to ask me about my plans for the day. “Writing, I suppose,” he says.
Probably, I answer.
Spring’s first thunderstorm last night left today dreary, damp, and chilly. I went to the grocery store and then to my “spiritual place,” Lake Michigan for fresh air and meditation.
Returning to the house, I put away what few items I bought at the grocery store. No toilet paper but they finally had ground beef, more cereal and unsweetened almond milk.
My youngest son called to catch up and to find out what my plans were today.
“Writing?” He asks.
Probably, I answer.
Is this what retirement looks like?
Clean laundry from yesterday still sits the in the laundry basket eyeing me to fold it.
My desire to strike up a habit of daily exercise has just made itself out of the box and moved to the floor.
I stand staring at it.
My husband and my mother would be rolling their eyes if could see the dishes in the kitchen sink.
“How can one person dirty so many dishes in such a short period of time?” they would ask.
Boredom, I would answer.
I decide to take a bath instead with a lavender bath bomb. I watch as it fizzles out as the tub fills with warm-to-hot water. My iPhone setting on the bathroom vanity is blaring cello music from the Croatian cellist, Hauser. The music becomes muted as I slowly slip under the water, eyes closed with only my nose above water level. I feel my joints and muscle relax.
I listen to the sounds of my breathing and the cello until the water begins to cool. I turn the drain to open and I lay there as the water recedes around me. I wonder if this is how my body will feel as the mortician drains the blood from it.
I decide to read one of the new books I brought with me, a novella, Gwendy’s Button Box written by Stephen King and Richard Chizmar. A 166-page book that captured and entertained my isolated attention for about an hour.
Loneliness has no concept of square footage.
Sitting, staring out the front window, I remembered my husband asking me a question before he left for our home in southeastern Michigan. (I decided to stay at our vacation home before I knew the state would be in lockdown.)
“Is this house going to be big enough for us when we decide to retire here?”
“It’s too big without you and the pups in it,” I would answer today.
As my 80-year old mother would say, “those clothes aren’t going to fold themselves and those dishes aren’t going to get washed by themselves either.”
“Yes, mother,“ I whisper as I stub my toe on the Pilates bar.
Back to my remote office tomorrow.
The Blogging Owl
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