Oddly the toads or frogs or crickets start croaking this time of year like it’s all on cue. My hands are rubbed raw from the soap and sanitizer and I’ve got a cat on my lap. A phone, plenty of flour in case we need to make bread. Dawn said when I go to the store to look for the rubbing alcohol and aloe vera because they’re out of Purell, it’s make-it-yourself time. I looked down the aisle but didn’t feel like it. Made “caldo verde,” the simple Portuguese soup (sausage and potatoes). Thought about burning the last of the winter wood but didn’t. The sky’s a mixed pink and gray, the smell of cooked sausages and sautéed onions. The seam between winter and spring. Most offices telling their employees to work from home now. Good video conferencing and waving to the camera, hi and goodbye! The new normal. We sucked the ice cream cones dry and chewed them down to the nub.

Categories: death, prose, writing

Tags: coronavirus, creative nonfiction, Memoir, pacific northwest, prose, Seattle, William Pearse writer