It’s a beautiful day, one of the most beautiful days we’ve had recently. Soft breeze, sunny skies, puffy clouds. We were supposed to get a week of this, but the wildfires that have devastated the west coast reached us and blanketed the area with haze for several days. Today, though, we can open our windows and breathe deeply and I am grateful for that.
Perfect.
Fall used to be my favorite time of year. I enjoyed the relief from the summer heat. The season brings with it crisp air, soft light, vibrant shades of gold and auburn, the smell of a wood-burning fireplace, or the unexpected warmth of the afternoon sun. A chance in later years to break out my favorite uniform, jeans, a turtleneck sweater, a jacket, low boots.
I’ve struggled to hold onto the joy I used to feel this time of year. Nineteen years ago, my husband was killed on 9/11. That certainly wiped out any possibility of autumnal pleasure for quite a while. And just as I was coming back to appreciating the change of seasons, my beloved younger sister succumbed quickly and unexpectedly to a virulent and advanced form of pancreatic cancer that killed her within a couple of months. We all hung out together. Then it was the two of us. Now it’s down to one.
I still talk to one or both of them every day, but of course, it’s a one-sided conversation.
I went into 2020 determined to heal but, well, COVID. So many plans for my road to recovery have been knocked off the board.
Everyone’s in this position, though, aren’t they? My neighbor across the street has an eight-month old grandchild living in Germany she saw just once, right after he was born. Another friend was unable to attend her father’s funeral.
I’m luckier than many, although I don’t like to think in those terms. But I have advantages. I have a house, I am more or less retired (unless you count writing) and I live in a neighborhood I don’t mind being stuck in. Plenty of trees, plenty of room, plenty of people of all ages and ethnicities. Plenty of dogs, too. COVID puppies are the new normal around here. My dog Molly seems to enjoy the company.
Autumn is when I brought her home fifteen years ago. My sister and I traveled to a farm in Virginia to return with this tiny white puppy with apricot ears. She threw up twice in the car and decided she needed to relieve herself as we sped along a congested I-95 during a downpour. Naturally, we pulled over. What does a two-month-old puppy the length of my forearm do in such conditions, unused to her new leash, her new human, and the enormous semi-trailers rumbling by like metal monsters? She sought refuge underneath the car. As she was unresponsive to tugs and soothing words, I lay on my stomach and slithered underneath the car to fetch her. As I emerged, soaking and triumphant, she peed on me.
They say dogs have owners and cats have staff. I suspect Molly had a bit of each, as well as a lifetime of love and attention ahead of her.
I’m back home now. I’ve gone around the side of my house to look at the fence I painted the other day. Just a small fence, maybe three feet across. My husband put it up twenty-five years ago to separate our tiny back garden from the air conditioning unit. To my mind, it was perfect, a little piece of nonconformity in our architecturally homogenous neighborhood. I have no idea if it was sanctioned by the management company; we never asked.
When I went to take a look at it recently, I saw the planks were rotted away at the bottom. The railing was crooked—warped, or had it always been like that? The whole fence was off-kilter. I tried to straighten it out, but time had welded it into its cock-eyed position.
I did what I could, though, just as I’ve been doing what I can for a year now. My husband and sister were the stronger, more handy people in our once-upon-a-time trio, more talented in the kitchen as well. Loss and semi-isolation have forced me into something of a learning curve. I sweep and shovel and hammer and cook and bike and walk and write and think. I water plants and paint fences. I make my dog’s life as easy as possible. I wave at my neighbors and Zoom with my friends. I laugh at silly jokes and read more than ever. I also yell and curse and pound the walls.
It is what it is. And in this moment, for this moment, it’s perfect.