Like too wet watercolors, do you recall how the early covid days bled into one another? And how heavy the angst, isolation, and drumming of nails felt during that time?
My writing is that way lately; even worse, my heart seems to be taking a break and watching from the sidelines.
I’m sick. Yesterday I flipped the passenger mirror’s visor and saw that white flakes and crusties had formed on the border of my nose. “Oh no, that poor woman,” I told Maria while checking my newly sculpted brows, knowing that the vivacious, twenty-something year old stylist had been plastered inches away from mine with dried snot playing on the big screen of my face.
I’m stuck in a dumb spot in my book. It’s a part in Minneapolis in 2012 where I walked by a museum of art building shaped like a boat. On the way, I chatted with a couple of guys who were leaning against a moving van awaiting instructions from their boss. After I told them about my trip, one said, “I wish I could just pick up and go like that.” Yet, that he had a family to support was no excuse in my eyes. “Of course, you can do it!”
What a Pollyanna-like obnoxious varsity cheerleader I can be.
The all-day rain, lightning, and thunderstorms finally let up. I’m the lone, mucous-nosed wolf sitting on the deck and, like a queen in her palace, I am observing my family playing beach games and floating in the waves far below.
It’s now past sunset, and I’m fresh out of the shower. I towel my hair and see a pointed black object in a sea of blue, and instantly, I know what it is; a dolphin. There’s also a drone and a man steering it nearby. If he looks out, he could see the spectacular sight, zoom the drone overhead, and get the shot. However, he doesn’t and the dolphin passes unseen. I feel the sensation of a fist pumping into my hip and tack a tally on the good guys’ side.