A Taste of Normal

We’re in our sixth month of the pandemic and I’ve gotten really used to my own company. I’m in my house most of the time, packing and sorting through stuff because I’m moving — since my job is now fully remote. I’m throwing away old tax returns and trying to figure out what to do with a set of china that I’ll never use. It’s not exactly a fun-filled life right now. But I’m not complaining. At least I still have a job and a place to live. 

Last night I got a taste of my old life. For the past three years, I’ve danced with a group of gals who have come to be my friend group. For me, a friend group is something to cherish. They don’t come along that often but when they do, life just seems fuller and richer. So last night we danced outside on the lawn of the church where we used to hold our inside classes. It was hot and muggy but we were dancing under the enormous boughs of old trees and that makes me feel like a Druid. Afterwards four of us went to one of the women’s house, sat on her patio in a big eight foot square, drank wine and talked about our grown children, the men who were or weren’t in our lives, growing up in alcoholic families, home improvements, and Korean flower shops — utterly mundane stuff. And it was wonderful. 

On the way home, I had a craving for something delicious. I wondered if the French bakery Amelie’s was still open. So I detoured off my route. And there it was — lights on, people on the patio. There used to be a twenty-minute line inside, but now there were only two sets of customers ahead of me. We waited in six-foot increments. I got the last blueberry tart. Driving home, devouring the tasty tart, I realized how much I will miss this city and the people in it. But at least for a while, I savored a little bit of normality.

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