It rained like hell, like uncooked rice spit on the windows the sound. And the big tree branches lay in clumps around the yard. And the ground oozed like sores, like cartoon mouths. And I dozed and woke to the plink-plink of it on the glass with reports of snow in the mountains and more rain below. But we had hot coffee in the mornings and everything we wanted. We could wait out the rain. The calendar said February 4, a day that didn’t mean a thing. A day between days looking out for a new day or another day gone by. The rain fell on its own with no regard for time. And I fell into the same rhythm, down and down and down.

I stuck my head outside and went back upstairs. I was between jobs but basically on call. My urge to work in the mornings fast petered out. I drained my nose with the Neti jar and did my push-ups, made playlists, watched videos, cleaned up. Watched as the rain drops gathered on the trees, hung there then dropped. Air-drumming at my desk, killing time.

All four of us got in the car for a drive-up COVID spit test in Bellevue. Comical watching each of us trying to make enough spit to fill the tube to the line. A year ago we were getting ready to fly to Disneyland this time. And no one in masks, with droves of kids screaming and free breakfast buffets at the hotel with all those hot pans of food laid out steaming. Cab rides, meals out, airports and planes. We got back and I interviewed for a new job then started taking the bus downtown, thought what bad timing with a global pandemic, the bus. And soon they closed the office and I was home gardening again with spring on the way and no one around. Here we are a year later, waiting it out.

Last night we sat by the fire and talked, a rare thing. Lily and Charlotte growing up fast. I said see isn’t this nice, you two wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for this pandemic. And Dawn said we should record what it’s like so we can listen back 10 years from now.

It sounds like uncooked rice spit on the windows.

Categories: Memoir, microblogging, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, pacific northwest, pandemic