Spring is here, virus be damned. The sun is shining today. The birds sing, hoping to attract a mate. Lizards are in every patch of chilly sun. They don’t startle when I come close. They’ll risk it. So do we, putting on warm coats and sitting with our faces upturned. I brought out the summer seedlings and they grow in front of my eyes. I know because I have time to watch them.
On Tuesday, we were ordered to shelter-in-place. We can only leave our homes for food or medicine. Tom starts the work day in his pj’s. I move some mulch and pull some weeds. The kids work on school assignments. I work on school assignments. I collect eggs from the chickens. Some days we cook dinner with whatever we can find in the garden and at the store. Some days we order take-out, hoping to keep neighborhood restaurants in business. We bake a cake. We dole out our favorite TV shows for the evening’s entertainment. We read books. We check the news twice a day. We write in our collective Pandemic Log.
We meet our neighbors outside in the street, sharing news from six feet away. We put our magazines out into the Little Free Library. We wave to the kids in strollers and on scooters as they go past. I tell them to come eat snap peas and carrots from the garden if they want. I watch the bees in the Forget-Me-Nots. I watch the Bewick’s Wrens make a nest in our telescope. I wait for the mail. Usually it’s junk.
Adam puts up his hair and goes to work at the bakery every day. He works in the back, making pastries and breads, that sell out quickly. The dishwasher is no longer coming to work, so he washes dishes too. They are down to a skeleton crew. Customers come in and pick out what they want, then leave quickly. No one is allowed to linger at the tables in any food establishment. The parking lots are so empty, the cities don’t bother issuing tickets anymore. The highways and bridges are so empty, the Golden Gate Bridge association is seeking government assistance because tolls are down. There is no traffic. The trains and buses have reduced their hours. No one is riding them.
Rin practices the ukulele, which she decided to take up a week ago. She goes with me to the grocery, and together we sigh over the empty shelves. We’ve ordered some canvases and painting supplies and hope they come shortly, so we can try to create. She comes and lays her head on my shoulder when she realizes she won’t be going to rehearsal anymore. Sometimes we make cocoa.
Today our governor said that he expects 56% of Californians to have the virus by June. The amount of cases here rises frightfully fast. My brother called and told me to wear a mask when I go out. I take eggs to an elderly neighbor and he hugs me before I can stop him. I wonder if I’m making other people sick. We think about getting a kitten, because we need one, but the shelters are closed for adoptions.
We wash our hands. We use the hand sanitizer my friend Buddy sent us from Missouri, when I couldn’t find any. I hope he can find some when he needs some. I text my friends. We make jokes about toilet paper. We mourn the loss of our seniors’ graduations. We wonder if our kids will be allowed to go to college in the fall. Some of my friends file for unemployment. Some close their businesses. The schools serve brown-bag breakfasts and lunches to students who need them. We watch Yo-Yo Ma perform Songs of Comfort. Sometimes we sleep.