Normally this is almost my favorite time of year--summer is in its death throes; a peep of scarlet and gold starts tingeing the trees; the mornings are sometimes a little bit cool; the last of the crickets keep chirping, a bit feebly, but grimly holding on though they must know, instinctively, that their season is coming to a close. We are on the cusp of what is usually my favorite time of year--fall fun and frolicking with friends, followed by wintery, cold, bleakness outside, and cozy companionship inside.
But this year--not so much. Fall and winter will come, and that is comforting enough, I suppose. Time will keep on keepin' on, and each passing month will bring us closer to the end of this current bizarre, lonely, masked universe in which we've landed ourselves. It's only been, what? 6 months since we relocated to this current Dumbest Timeline, but really, it feels like literal years. Memories from the first few months of 2020 are fuzzy and fading, and it now feels like all I've ever known is this. Zoom meetings. Masks. Nightmares about being stuck in crowds without masks. Grocery deliveries. Things like casual shopping trips, hugs and handshakes, simple library processes and policies, nights at the local bars, plane trips, and buffets--all of them distant echoes from the now-mythical Before Times.
Just after the "shutdown", but before everything really seemed to go into stasis, I attended an impromptu meeting at the library. As we spoke about various pieces of business related to how to operate in the weeks ahead, I looked around the table and wondered, When will we all meet in person again?
6 months later, and we haven't yet.
In late July, during the lowest point of my (inevitable) isolation and depression, I had the good sense to set up a recurring "family time" with my aunt and uncle. Once a week, I drive out to the country where they live and the three of us sit on their front lawn and watch the sun set and the birds and squirrels and chipmunks frolic--all of us masked, and me sitting far away from them. It's a peaceful and sweet and comforting routine, and I hope we can keep it going until the winter.
The other evening, as I was driving home from my weekly family time with them, I drove past a sushi restaurant on the outskirts of town. This sushi restaurant has been here for a dog's age--since before the first time I had lived here. For 16 years at least, and probably a lot more, that sushi restaurant has stood in the same location--slightly shabby, but always there. And in business. What unremarkable sushi and indifferent service failed to do, the pandemic seems to have succeeded at. The place seems to be a shell--the building is dark and empty and silent; the business sign isn't lit. Has the sushi restaurant gone completely out of business, or have the owners only gone to ground, temporarily, until happier, healthier times? Either way, I realized that I had hit a new point in These Pandemic Times (TM)--I found myself relating to a building. I'm still present, still enduring, but I feel weirdly empty, dark, and silent. Abandoned, even. My existence feels as though it has dwindled down to the basics: work, which is comforting for its routines and schedules and company, but also stressful and a little heartbreaking; grocery deliveries; occasional visits outside in parks and on lawns with a dwindling group of friends. Several of the people in my social circle have moved out of state over the course of the pandemic. My dreams and ambitions (such as they were) are on hold--if you will, on a leave of absence. Closed until further notice, but not permanently. One day, I hope to re-occupy the building of my life, but right now, all I have it in me to do is...well, exist. Endure.
Indiana feels the same.
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