By Lee Ruggles
The phone rings as I finish my first cup of coffee. Good morning, I chirp cheerfully.
I can’t stand the heat. I really wish I hadn’t moved down here!
It’s only a few months, I tell him. You could move further north, I add.
Yeah, but I’m also bored out of my skull.
He is at home, not out working. He’s a professional long haul truck driver who was injured in a serious accident on the way to work one morning and is receiving Social Security disability. He’s allowed to work a limited amount of time without jeopardizing that income. It’s tricky. And driving an eighteen-wheeler is out of the question.
He tells me he can’t move, that Marge, his significant other, wouldn’t be able to manage on her own. She, too, is a truck driver.
You could volunteer, maybe at the Food Bank. As I say it I know that’s not what he wants or needs. He’s not a ‘people person,’ although he can rise to the situation, if need be. For lack of a better description, his behavior is often reminiscent of Eeyore, Winnie the Pooh’s down-in-the-mouth friend.
I realize that I need to rest the part of my mind that’s filled with suggestions, remedies and directions. I just sit and listen.
In a few minutes we’re laughing about some idiotic Facebook post, Marge’s herb garden and the great pizza she makes.
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The phone rings as I start to prep my salad for lunch. Hi! How are you? I ask.
I didn’t know who else to call. Sam is down in Ft. Myers. I just need someone to talk to. I can hear the catch in her voice. You remember my daughter Cindy. She’s getting a divorce. Sam and I don’t talk about it. He’s stubborn that way. I also know that she and her husband have serious health issues. Once more I rest the part of my mind that wants to fix everything and make the bad stuff go away.
I ask if she’d like to come to my home for dinner. Talking face to face, even with all of the restrictions of the pandemic, is fun and comforting for both of us. Our separate worlds come a little closer. The phone rings as I settle in to watch TV. It’s now twilight. Hey, what’s up? I ask her. She sounds out of breath.
I’m taking my walk. If I sound strange it’s because I’m walking uphill. I was feeling lonely and kind of depressed. No one to talk to. It’s weird. I get really anxious about ‘what-ifs,’ this isolation from each other, afraid that the person walking past me in the market will pass on the virus! Are my grandkids safe enough? I miss the camaraderie of singing with the choir, side by side, feeling the vibrations of our voices melding into something so beautiful. And the book club. I miss the book club.
I start to say something about Skype, FaceTime, Zoom, catch myself and make no suggestions.
We talk about the current phenomenon that is not going away. The social isolation so vital during this pandemic. This is a woman I’ve known all of my life. I have always admired her professionalism and accomplishments as a person and as a writer. Strong-willed and opinionated, she feels safe pouring out her fears and anxieties.
The sun sets. I go through my routine of closing the blinds, locking up, switching on the front door light. TV will wait for another day. The anxiety that I often feel as day eases into night isn’t showing itself. Most of my To Do list isn’t done. Each of our realities is both different and alike. We’ll each greet the morning with different expectations. I can only hope that the weight of our perceptions of the world are a little less onerous when we lean and rest our heads, metaphorically, on each other’s shoulder.
Photo by Akshar Dave on Unsplash
