Day 147

I feel that I have dropped the ball. That the reason I started writing here — to record this time by days — has now, with such time between the last several posts, fundamentally changed.

And so, as I sit here, trying to find words in my fingers, I feel, in my gut, a sense of disappointment in myself. Of possible failure. An internal tremor that could dissipate or erupt.

Things are not good. We are nearly five months into living our lives almost entirely within the walls of our home, and things out in the world are only worse.

The Johns Hopkins Coronavirus Research Center tells me tonight that:

• There have been 19,266,406 cases globally.

• 4,928,802 cases in the U.S.

• 718,530 people have died worldwide.

• 161,052 people have died in the U.S.

• Some scientists estimate that the total cases could be more than 10 times what the numbers show.

• Most certainly, the death toll is higher.

There are other things that could be tallied, though perhaps many not so easily:

• Jobs lost.

• Evictions probable.

• Unemployment benefits cut.

• Businesses forever lost.

• Family vacations cancelled.

• Schools closed.

Last night, our city’s school committee voted for a remote start to school. From September 16 through November 3, my kids will all be schooled through Zoom and other technology, from our home.

As I write this, even as grateful as I am to know that I can keep my kids safer at home than they likely would be at school, the tremor travels from my gut to the back of my throat and I look to the bedside table to the Tums.

It’s been weeks since I’ve written. I have gone grocery shopping, continued my walks. We have ordered some near-necessities online, here and there. We spend time as a family in the backyard, and inside. Sometimes we get on each other’s nerves. Most of the time it is loud. There are crumbs between the couch cushions, and on the living room rug, no matter how often I vacuum. I've tried new recipes, and we’ve had veggie burgers frequently. My calendar shows the cancellations that I marked in March. The weekly lessons and engagements. The camps that the kids were planning to attend, and that I hadn’t yet managed to register them for. I’m so grateful that I dragged my feet about that.

We have cleaned out the porch and bought a dehumidifier for the basement. Our basil plants have yielded a lot of pesto and fallen prey to beetles. The tomato plants don’t get enough sun for the fruit to ripen. We had to pick a few big green ones the other day, because high winds were threatening to do the plants in. Some friends lost power for days as a result of that storm. We lost internet and cable for a few hours. There was some discontent in house about not being able to watch the Red Sox and the Celtics games. (Sports are back, somewhat.)

I have notes on scraps of paper, in notebooks, in my Notes app on my phone. I think about being here and then I scroll and scroll and scroll on my phone. On Twitter, on news sites, on Twitter again. Hoping for something familiar, something comforting, some information that will allow me to feel in control, or that I’ve made the right decisions to not let my kids do anything at all besides mow the lawn across the street, go for a run at the track, take a ballet class outdoors. All distant. All masked. All a relief and also a mark of all that is different.

No trips to the beach. No backyard Wiffle Ball games. No pool parties. No barbecues. No hanging out with the cousins. No weekends with Auntie or GG. No eating out at our favorite roadside spot.

What I feel, now, in addition to a moving tremor, is the truth forming. That being here, writing, at all is better than not. That intentions can change. That I will never feel I have done enough. For myself or for my family. That writing that feels indulgent and dramatic. That though I want to delete some of this, I won’t. I will let it be. Let it sit. Let it be a marker that I am here. Let it encourage me to come back again, sooner, and do better next time.

Stay safe, everyone.