I looked at my calendar the other morning, the one that hangs inside the pantry door, the family calendar where we used to keep track of soccer games, teacher conferences and kid meetups, of graduation ceremonies and parties, of our doctors appointments and dinners with friends, of volunteer meetings and weekends away, of our presentations and vacations, the calendar that at one time I could not possible run a household without, and you know what? I hadn’t turned the page since March.
Most of the events in March never materialized, nor did the few in April. We skipped past May with nary a mark despite a big event or two like my son’s college graduation that never happened and his then upcoming five-month stint out west. We ran past June, the start of summer and a canceled beach vacation, and now, he we are, hurtling through July like the Space Shuttle.
It’s odd when the life events that mark the passage of time are suspended, when the social fabric that holds society together is put on ice, when you can’t even hug those you love most dearly without first undergoing a two-week isolation period, when things as simple as sharing a meal together or going to the grocery store have become something to dissect, pull apart, analyze down to the studs and wipe clean with disinfectant when you get home.
On another note, all the toilet paper that my husband and I each ordered individually when the pandemic started and you couldn’t get any at the grocery store arrived a few weeks ago, the boxes plopped down on our doorstep within a day of each other, so much that we now have enough to get through to the next pandemic.
Is this what forever looks like? If so, where do we go from here? Perhaps we’ll take our cue from the cat and head back to bed until this is all over.
pam lazos 7.24.20