Monday, March 23, 2020

Three Tips From Quarantine

It’s hard to see the big picture right now, because we don’t know the future. But, wouldn’t it make sense to hoard something delicious, or nutritious, rather than toilet paper? I mean if push comes to shove, there are ways to hose off, or whatever, but virus or no virus, without food, even the greediest person will croak.
Personally, if I was a hoarder, which I’m not, I’d be stocking up on Nutella. I mean life is short, and if all of us are going to be sick anyway, shouldn’t we dance the last waltz on a sinking ship? Party like it’s 1999?  Maybe not. After all, in this case, women, children and the elderly don’t necessarily have first dibs on a life raft. We are in this together.
Which reminds me of something that happened yesterday. The two of us left the safety of our quarantine, for a walk around the neighborhood. We’re holding hands and trudging up hill. While we may have grunted a few times, it seemed odd that a man stopped his truck next to us, asking if we needed toilet paper. Very strange. Of course, we thanked him and told him we had plenty at home. Then, he said, “Oh, I was going to give you some.” (Am I wrong for doubting the shady stranger?) Nothing about the situation felt right.
Now I keep wondering how I might find that man in an emergency. Does he have a business card? I can imagine him being in control of the entire neighborhood; holding us hostage in a sense, by offering rolls of one-ply, for twenty bucks. Maybe I could trade one warehouse sized jar of Nutella? Never.😀
Anyway, be careful out there, because we’ve entered the twilight zone. Things can nosedive in an instant. Basically, here’s my three pointers for today.
 Watch out for each other
 Eat enjoyable, healthy meals in moderation.
Don’t pander to greedy hoarders.

Saturday, March 7, 2020

The Voice of Spring-(A poem)

Spring’s Voice

Spring pulled me aside to gossip about winter.
She blew in my ear,
gave me chills,
made me grab my jacket.
Pointing out the brittle leaves,
complaining about the frost,
she even whispered the truth about the bulbs.
‘They won’t be coming up.’
Her erratic laughter echoed in a layer of fog.
Daunting, wet words drenched my path with rain.
‘Be still,” I said.
‘I can’t,’ she replied.

‘Show me your buds,
Let me hear the birds.
Better yet, tell me about summer.’
The branches swayed,
a swoosh of mist filled the air.
‘You’ll miss me when I’m gone.’

I ran for the house,
As a storm approached.
‘Yes, I will.
I’ll miss every cool breath of wind
howling under the window,
distant rolls of thunder;
distinct cloud formations,
even showers pounding on the roof.
Yes, dear Spring.
I’ll miss your voice.’

-Eve Gaal