Is it time to exhale yet? I'm not sure. I keep telling myself, wait until this class is over, wait until this event is done, wait until that election outcome comes to pass. I'm very busy waiting. I'm waiting until it is safe to breathe but forgetting that life is happening now, daily, moment by moment whether I'm breathing or not. I am no longer a bystander in my own life, which is probably a good thing, but I'm tethered to my calendar, gritting my pearlies as I attempt to do the next thing on my list, wondering when it's all going to finally be done so I can stop running and start breathing. Aren't you tired? I'm exhausted.
The schedule holds me together. The structure of my day orbits my evening visits to my mother. I don't want to go out after dark, especially if it is raining, but I do because I've set an alert on my phone—5:50 pm, visit Mom, bring gizmo. I bundle up in many layers of polyester fleece and fill my pockets with the baby monitor, a small flashlight, hanky, and gloves. I pull up my hood and venture out into the cold. For my reader in Minnesota, sorry. It's not Minnesota cold—40°F tonight, but I'm not built for cold, just saying.
As part of my personal kindness campaign, I've been eschewing the parking spaces close to the Love Shack, leaving them for my neighbors who of course are oblivious to my sacrifice. Instead I park about one hundred yards down the street. Every night I wonder if my car will still be there. Every night, so far, it has been. On Halloween night, someone broke into my car and took my cell phone charger and spare change. The contents of the glove box were on the floor. The intruder rifled through the crates of car gear in the trunk but rejected the jumper cables and tire iron. Even though the thief was no doubt disappointed, in exchange, they left me a little bag of Halloween candy, wasn't that nice? And in spite of their disappointment, they didn't trash the car. They could have, but they didn't. So I still have a car that works. Maybe there is a god.
Every evening when it is time to visit Mom, I take a little flashlight and stumble down the street to my car, masked up, wary of pedestrians. Even if they are walking a dog, you never know if they are wackos pretending to be dogwalkers. People with dogs are everywhere up here on the hill. They could all be wackos. With everyone masked, you can't see their faces. Luckily, they always give me a wide berth. Maybe they think I'm a wacko. Like, why would I choose to be out here walking in the cold dark if I didn't have to walk a dog?
It's fall. That means my car is buried in golden leaves. I scrape them off the windshield with the wipers so I can see but I ignore the piles on the roof and hood. The soggy leaves will disintegrate and dissolve the paint but the car will be long dead by the time that is a problem. I might be too, who knows.
You may remember Mom moved into a small care home in my neighborhood. It takes about four minutes to drive there. The streets up on this hill seem darker year by year. I'd like to blame the old streetlights but I'm pretty sure it's my eyes. My eyes are old. Everything else on me is old, no reason to think my eyes would escape the ravages of time. I don't really care except I get a little nervous when I drive in the dark. I am learning to drive by feel. By the way, you might want to avoid the east side of Mt. Tabor if you are driving after dark.
Yesterday the caregiver at the care home sent me a two-minute video of Mom. She was sitting at the dining room table talking with two other white-haired women. The big screen television played football on the wall behind them. The audio wasn't great but I gathered that they were discussing books. The conversation was slow as Mom struggled to find her words. It emerged that the newest resident at the care home had worked in a library somewhere. Mom remarked with some excitement that she used to be a librarian herself. Common ground! I felt proud, like I was watching my kindergartener behaving appropriately during milk and cookies.
Tonight Mom bundled up to visit with me outside the care home. The sky was black and filled with stars. We sat in the patio chairs six feet apart. Her breath billowed out in front of her face; mine was blocked by my face mask.
"Guess what?" Mom said. "We have a new president!"
We congratulated each other.
"Maybe now things will calm down," she said. She has no idea.
Shortly after that she packed it in. Too cold. We visited through the bedroom window for a few minutes, using the baby monitor system. I pulled my mask down so she could see my entire face as I chatted through the walkie-talkie. She hasn't seen my face in weeks. For some reason, that mattered to me.
I drove home slowly like the aging person that I am, conscious that one careless mistake could result in tragedy. In keeping with my personal desire to do no harm, running over a dogwalker (or a dog) would blow my good karma to smithereens. Don't want that. It's cold and dark, and I'm old and tired. I need all the good karma I can get.
