May 29, 2021
Back in the quiet room at the library, I thought there would be a bigger crowd fifteen minutes after the doors opened this morning. I’m the only one here, so I am sitting in my seat. On the five-minute drive from my house, I had acknowledged that I probably wouldn’t be able to snag my same old seat; I thought there would be a crowd. And, yet, here I sit. All is the same as if the pandemic never happened; perhaps the historical books ringing the room are making the old-book-air smell a bit stronger than usual? My face cracked into tears when I approached my table.
My 10-year-old Facetime niece was at Mom and Dad’s yesterday. “Aunt Linda, I will probably cry when I see you,” she announced, like that would be a bit of a thing we would have to get through when I came home.
FaceTime niece and me—in real time: 2019.
“I’m pretty sure I’ll cry when I see you, too,” I assured her.
Then she plugged her face tightly into the camera and did a finger swish between her and my mom who wasn’t yet on the screen, and she whispered, “Notice we don’t have masks on!” Her wide-eyed face was lit with a knowing smile.
Mom and Dad joined her at the table, pulling chairs in on either side of her. She was right in the middle. “All three of us won’t fit on the screen,” she announced.
I know this screen pretty well: When Mom and Dad are on Facetime at the kitchen table, sometimes I just see Dad’s left ear and Mom’s right ear. Between them, I’ve kept an eye on the wall calendar in the corner of the kitchen. We’ve cycled through 15 different monthly pictures on two calendars. Throughout 2020, the calendar featured farm animals; they got that calendar from the feed store, as they normally do every year. However, they hadn’t been to the feed store in the new year, so 2021 is a bird and flower calendar, I think; from where, I don’t know. Above the calendar are the hooks attached to a 12” long 1”x12” board for what seems to be 100 keys. It’s where I hang the rental car key when I go home—except for the $900 key fob I accidentally threw into the garbage that was then incinerated in the burn barrel. That happened on my last visit in December 2019.
Fly swatters hang to the right of the calendar, always at the ready for when there is a “damned fly” irking Dad. To the left of the calendar is a plate that has hung on the wall as long as I can remember. “Come in sit down, converse. Our place doesn’t always look like this, sometimes it’s even worse.” I have the same plate hanging in our entry way.
Occasionally, if Mom swings the camera so that Dad is in the center of the screen, I can see over his shoulder into the living room, and on the top shelf of the bookcase are our wedding photos: mine and my sister’s. I know that more family photos, including my brothers’ wedding photos, cascade down the shelves that I can’t see. The light blue curtain to the right let’s in the bright, early morning summer sunrises. And in December, the sparkling Christmas tree will sit to the right of those shelves in front of the curtain.
This year, I’ll be there for both seasons of light.
Flights to Iowa are booked for June 30th.