30 Notes from September

Everything stopped in March

The first two months of quarantine are like the first pancake

We had traveled with King Arthur from the ninth century through the fifteenth when the university declared that we would henceforward meet remotely

There was an eerie Pompeii quality of suspended animation to the space. None of us knew when we left in March that we still wouldn't be returned there by September

They’re in their thirties, but I could do one thing for them. I could vaccinate them with casseroles so heavy I could hardly lift the pan

When we explained our purpose, he seemed surprised. “I didn’t know the Census counted the homeless” 

For epidemics are not only democratic/ But hail from the same word, δήμος,/ Demos, the people

I said to my independent study student at that first meeting, because we had to talk about the coronavirus before we could talk about anything else: all of a sudden, everything has stopped being modern

When I still my mind, take in breath, and allow it to release in rhythm with my surroundings, I cry. I am in mourning

We wake up every morning to Martian skies. The smoke is even inside our home, even though we haven’t opened a window in days

It’s a disturbance in the universe

I still want to hug, bump fists, pat backs, shake hands (will that ever return?) but those are in cold storage for now

“I’m going to keep a journal,” I said. “To remember these times.” “Don’t go overboard,” my patient spouse replied

Add to that that dogs are fuzzy, silly, warm when it gets cold, ridiculous, mostly wonderful creatures

“We are safe. Our family is safe. We have everything”

The pandemic is changing us, too, but not in the instant

Seventh-grade boys are meant to be like pinballs, moving up and down hallways and into classrooms, bouncing off walls, off each other

She doesn’t seem scared of the virus, any more than she is of death, though she knows what that is, too. “You don’t get up,” she says matter-of-factly

One advantage of growing a beard during an extended stay-at-home order is that no one except your family has to experience that agonizing time

"I am sorry to hear that the novel-coronavirus has spread in America recently. Don't worry. Let me give you some advice”

This morning social distancing appeared in my dreams

Because of these female writers, I came to know a woman inside of me that frightens me and intrigues me. She has wild dreams

I want to change the station, change my mood, change my story/ Go back and rewrite my past

We wash/ each day our dirt/ again and again/ and again/ we wake and sweep the front porch

Sending you all a peace sign today. And praying we get some of that love and kindness back

So what’s it gonna be like, universe

We’ve taken a sentence or two or some lines from each blog post in September to create a quilt, a cento, a mini-collage, a fringe of whose story is this? We hope it’s ours, in the same way that holding hands can help (although we can’t do that now).