Cosmos

Something old, something new. Look at that lichen on the bench! Then, see, my baby cosmos plants are coming up! The weather here has been cool and foggy, perfect for both. Of course, my wrists are sticking to my computer...

Eight, Now

A friend's step daughter and her fiance have tested positive for the virus. He's had a fever for two days, she's asymptomatic, and they're in quarantine. My friend is beside herself with anger that they acted as though nothing was out of the ordinary, going to barbeques and poker games with friends.

I'm angry, too. But more than that, I'm afraid. I'm afraid for all of my stupid, stupid friends who think this pandemic is just something that's going to blow over, that they're somehow invulnerable, that everything is going to be just fine.

Eight. That's the number of people I know personally who have tested positive. Eight. I don't have so many friends that I can afford to lose eight of them. Fortunately, most of these people will recover, as they've mostly led healthy lives. At least two have had a devastating reaction to it, and I don't know yet about my friend's foolish young step daughter.

Having to Speak Up

On Facebook today, an old friend made fun of Trump's obesity. I'm overweight, and take that sort of thing very personally. Sure, he's disgusting in many ways, but fat shaming is fat shaming, so I said so. There's no need to stoop to his level, name-calling. We don't need to go low. There's so much else that can be said about him, none of it good.

The Universe Contradicts Itself

Last night, Allison told us she's been studying what the experts are saying about choral singing. They say that it may be three years before it's safe to sing in groups again. Three years. It's only been three months now, and I'm lost without it. I can't wrap my head around this news. I emailed my friend, Jeannette about it, and she said it's better than death. I morbidly replied, 'Is it?' She wrote back that yes, not being able to sing for three years would be better than not being able to breathe, dying alone with a breathing tube down your throat and wondering who would care for Halle Macaw. I admitted she was right. But I didn't like to.

Then I went out on my deck to water the pot where I've planted some seeds, and I saw a couple of them poking their little heads up out of the dirt. Sigh.

The above painting is of some lilacs at 17 Shore Road in North Truro. Oil on board, In the collection of someone I can't remember. My mother's lilacs are blooming in New Hampshire, and chipmunks are climbing among the flowers.