I woke early nervous about work, I started work early, got to work early, and over time started equating work with my own self worth, having to work hard to separate the two.

In less than a week I ate most of a small ham by myself, oftentimes eating it cold by my computer for breakfast with a hard-boiled egg and coffee. I moved the dishes aside and burrowed into work. I was glad for it, it gave me something to do. And with so many people suddenly out of work, I was thankful for mine. A contract I started in March ended early due to the pandemic, but my firm helped me find another gig. The subject matter was dense but I decided to commit myself to it wholly as a matter of pride. And to protect my work by being the best I could be at it, to hold on tightly.

When the pandemic started to rise here, we paid more attention week by week. I ordered a freezer and started stocking up on meats. While some turned to guns, I turned to meat. Sausages, roasts, a ham the size of a football. Charlotte eats crap cereal all day, Dawn does her puzzles, Lily her makeup, me my ham. Lots of naps. Naps like the cat and dog, that’s more of a nap pose than actual sleep, the look of someone between feedings with not much to do. The clouds are puffy and every day it hails, it seems. The ice gathers on the lawn, and we by the windows watching it, glad for our heat and for our home. For our dinner and for our wine, for my job…we give thanks.

Categories: Memoir, microblogging, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, journal writing, Memoir, pacific northwest, William Pearse writer, work identity, writing