Tree blossoms are replaced by buttercups.
I drive through twenty-five stop lights and two roundabouts to get to work.
I’m going to hike the Wonderland Trail this summer. I’ve started planning already: I’ll go counterclockwise and take 13 days to complete the trip.
I’m reading a book called Nine Perfect Strangers which has been an entertaining distraction from, well, you know.
“I’m sorry, but we are still having a limit of one hand sanitizer/pack of flour/dried beans/baby formula. Which one of these would you like to keep?”
I’ll take a road trip to see everyone I love and miss. I’ll start in Montana, then go to Oregon, down to California, over to Arizona, Louisiana. Keep going to St. Louis and Boston and Kansas City and Bloomington and Chicago and Minnesota and Canada and Florida and Ohio. I will be able to hug everyone and sit nice and close to them and not wear a mask.
Big Boat School might not be such a bad idea after all. The founder of Women Offshore told me that the resources and network of a maritime academy would be useful for the span of a career on the water.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Behind the Plexiglas they say to me “I can’t believe that people wear homemade masks/don’t wear masks/don’t follow the one-way isles/are leaving their homes, can you?” I squint, I shrug. Beep. Beep. Beep.
As soon as Governor Ige invites tourists to return, I’m going to buy a ticket to Hawaii and stay there until I can’t stand the warm breeze or the sand sticking to my skin.
When will we get back to Michigan? When will it be safe to drive across the country so we can embrace all the wonderful people we know in the Midwest?
I sit in my car to eat my lunch. In the sky I watch a seagull follow a crow that has something orange in his beak. I watch a family having a six-feet-away-party with balloons hanging out of car windows.
I’m just going to go back to work on the sternwheeler and pretend that the first five months of 2020 were in a movie I saw.
Virtual dance music festivals and Eurovision Home Concerts are not bad things to come out of all this. I’ve even been a part of Zoom parties with family and that’s worked alright. My friends send me photos of their beautiful children. Thank god we’ve got the internet.
When I look down to place groceries in paper bags the mask moves up and rubs at the bottom of my eyelashes and eyelids and makes my eyes water.
|Don't worry. I wear gloves too.|
When I graduate
from the academy I’m going to get a job on a research vessel and learn new and
wonderful things from the scientists on board. Scientists like geologists who
are studying submarine volcanoes.
Yesterday the four of us got to do a virtual tasting together for the first time in weeks. We had a hilarious time sipping a nut brown beer, snacking on a cheese ball, and debating if the aerator was effective or not on a fifteen year old red wine.
They check my temperature when I get to work. They stick out their arm like they’re in an action movie and point a purple and white gun at my forehead. I try not to grimace.
I want to see the Netherlands in summer. I’ll fly out there in a few weeks and leave flowers and treats each week for my grandparents until I can see them again. I’ll go on walks with my cousins and I’ll take touristy photos of windmills.
There are only thirty-four more days until Summer Solstice.