COVID 19 Journal 11 - Sunset

April 4, 2020

Bits of this time feel absolutely heavenly, like a chance handed down with a nudge. I dreamed that the state of NC sent me an official letter telling me I needed to be the minister of Grace Presbyterian Church, here in Asheville. It was some kind of state-sponsored switcharoo with the current minister. I was terrified at the prospect, but the irrevocability of it indicated a confidence in my abilities that I was disappointed to wake up from.

The sun is starting to dip behind the mountain. Sand Hill Road seems about like normal on a Sunday night. Three neighborhood boys I recognize from Orchard Street just rode by on their bikes, careening down from their hill, seeming to move almost as fast as the tractor trailers blasting by. I hope they stay safe.

My heart is rooted here and sinks deeper the more I get outside and open my eyes. I love the layers of zigzag roof points of the factories beyond our streets. I love the redbud trees and double-blossom cherries in full array now, and the stately white cherry blooms towering at the top of my hill. I love how this neighborhood is both humble and sanctified by the feet of all the kids that move on these streets, by the hard working people and families in each house. Wherever I put my energy and focus is where my heart blooms, and it's HERE now. 

I went to campus for the first time in a while. My office, which used to feel like a refuge, feels strange now. Silence crashes down on that place and in it you feel a deathly presence. Maybe if I'm lucky to live through this and still have a job, I will go back there and feel it as an alive place again. But now I'm glad to have what I have, at home, and terribly lucky to have it, too.

Yesterday I took A. to the old abandoned K Mart parking lot an we ran around there. He did what he always wants to do now, if we're in an outdoor space that he trusts, which is play imaginary games that reference his old (pre coronavirus) life. He wants to play "going to school" or playdate at a friend's house, or having someone to his house. Only in these games, he wants to be the adult and the driver. He flies off on his walker and I run behind, pretending we're driving to school. He drops me off, saying "see you at one o'clock!" in an imitation of my own bright tone when I'm off to work. Escorting me to a pretend playdate, he imitates my best nice-mom voice by saying "don't forget to share!" 

He would play these games for hours, but inevitably I need to pee or stop pretending. It's a bit sketchy in the K Mart parking lot, where people drive through at breakneck speed to do...what? There's only an ATM and a Papas n' Beer restaurant, serving take-out in this time of quarantine. Some folks drive there for brief meet-ups where they park, verify each other's license plates then speed off together through the ghost-town business district.

We played and looped, and dodged cars, and careened around the bumpy asphalt for as long as my patience held out. It felt suspended and okay to play out the past. Some things, in his hands, are light and tender, and this was one. After everything closed I was beginning to fear we wouldn't have this game anymore. But all we need is a space, even a parking lot, and it grows again.

My cousin's wife tested positive for coronavirus. News is scant from them so I'm not sure, but my cousin who had some health scares already is worried. The stories on Facebook, the stories in the news. In the weird back pockets of experience are these deeply lonely events, people dying without saying goodbye except for when a nice nurse connects them with their family over video. The sadness and despair of the medical staff who tend to these patients. The families left behind.

We are still at the beginning of this precipice as a country, and in my state and county. 

I will take the peace when I can get it. I will try to keep my eyes open.