I'm looking out the window, waiting for my nephew and his wife to arrive with their daughters. The girls are one and three years old. The little one must have taken an extra-long nap because I have been sitting here looking out the window for a long time. Just waiting and watching the world go by.
I saw the three-year-old when Tod brought his family home for Christmas two years ago. We had so much fun. Allie and I made up a new game to play with her spoon while she was eating which made us both giggle. She was such a sweetheart. I can still feel the delightful goodbye hug she gave me. She lunged from Grandma's arms and wrapped her chubby little arms around my neck. Now I don't want to see them. Well, of course I do, but I know it isn't the safest thing to do. I thought the unexpected snowstorm would prevent their visit, but Tod has been quite insistent. I used to be so decisive, so intrepid. Now I just don't know anything anymore. I am decision making impaired.
My daughter recommended that I not see them. She said it was too risky with the third wave of the Corona virus rapidly spreading and killing people. It seems like a lifetime ago since I've seen Allie and I've never met the youngest one, Bonnie. I desperately want to see them. Am I being too cautious?
I feel the anxiety churning my stomach as I try to decide if it is really worth the risk.
I've asked my nephew and his wife to wear masks. I will too. Somehow that just seems so rude, like I don't trust them. Since they have flown from New York and have been visiting family they could well be carriers. I could end up in the hospital or even die. So it's an understandable request. Still feels rude.
I don't know how this happened, how I became so isolated. It just kind of sneaked up on me like a shadow in the night. Like the Creeping Numbs, an expression we used at Boeing. A person would graduate from college and take a job at Boeing, planning to stay maybe five years and then move on. Boredom and inertia set in; the next thing you know you're walking out the door and into retirement.
It all started two years ago when the Corona virus caused a worldwide pandemic. Being in the older age group and with autoimmune issues I decided the safest thing to do was stay home. This virus was highly contagious and deadly for people of my age and with my health issues. I began quarantining and my world started shrinking.
I was a very independent person and didn't mind spending time alone. Not all the time, of course, but a few close friends filled my social needs. I always enjoyed having someone to share a hike or a walk in the park. To share a good meal or a concert. A few good friends were all I needed to be happy.
About three months into the pandemic, pictures of the elderly looking forlornly out of their windows were frequently printed in the paper. They looked so lonesome, so very sad and pathetic, but I knew I wouldn't be like them. Even though I lived alone I had friends to chat with on the phone. I became a zoom master, too.
I made it a point to call or zoom with at least two friends a week. We had long, cozy chats. We avoided talking politics because it was so aggravating, but we talked about books and TV shows, new recipes and what we would do after the pandemic. After a while we were rehashing the same old topics. Yes, you took your dog for a walk and she barked at the squirrels and crows. I know how funny your cat is when she gets into the catnip. Saw flickers at the bird feeder. Made sourdough bread that turned out great. No one had anything new to say. The conversations weren't interesting. I quit listening and quit calling. After a while, I quit answering the phone and it quit ringing. It just took too much energy to talk to people.
I used to love going for walks through the neighborhood and the park. There were narrow streets winding this way and that and shady stairways up and down the steep hills that felt like secret passages. Stunning views of gardens with the lake as a backdrop would magically appear around the next corner.
Pileated woodpeckers could be heard and occasionally seen in the park. At dawn or dusk I might hear an owl and, if I was extremely lucky, I might have the pleasure of seeing one. The most wonderful of all was seeing the owlets in springtime; there is nothing cuter. A year into the pandemic and my arthritic knees prevented me from going for walks. On a good day I could make it to the end of the block. It just wasn't worth the effort of changing from my slippers into my shoes. I quit going out.
Gardening had been a passion. I could spend hours and hours in the garden. Watching the plants poke through the earth and grow to maturity delighted me. Experimenting with combining various colors and textures and seeing the results always made me happy. Just being outside and breathing the fresh air made me feel good. But then the rain began, oh so much rain. Record setting rain. The dirt turned to mud. It was impossible to work. And my stupid, stupid knees took the pleasure out of gardening on the few nice days we had.
I couldn't even have my sister over for lunch. Every Friday she'd go out to brunch with her girlfriends. I just didn't understand why she took these chances. Her daughter and grandson were living with her and they both had respiratory ailments. What if she caught Covid and passed it on to them?
They'd probably die. I just wouldn't chance it. I really missed her. I really missed the laughter and hugs. So here I am, looking out the window, waiting for my nephew and his family, feeling anxious. Finally, I see them pulling into the driveway. I leave my chair and the doorbell rings as I am putting my mask on. I see little hands pressed against the translucent window beside the door and place my own hand up against the glass. I open the door and Tod and his wife Helen are standing there with the two little girls peeking around their parents' legs. Allie pushes her way through and comes into the entry hall, her little sister shoving through behind her.
“Allie,” Tod asks, “Do you remember your Aunt Lois?”
Of course she doesn't. She was only one when I last saw her.
“Yes I do,” she says clearly, and comes toward me with her arms outstretched for a hug.
“Keep your distance,” I hear my daughter saying in my head. “It will be easy because they don't know you.”
It is so spontaneous. I don't mean to do it, but I bend over for the hug. A sweet little kiss is placed on my cheek. Well, on my lavender mask. Little Bonnie is right behind her big sister, and I can't possibly refuse to accept her hug and kiss, too. Anxiety washes through me. I reassure myself that surely just a quick hug and kiss while wearing my mask will be all right. Now that the greetings are over, I will hold fast, keep my distance.
Allie sits down on the bottom stair and pulls off her snow boots. “My socks always stay in my boots,” she explains as she retrieves and puts them back on. She slips out of her coat. “Look. I have short sleeves.” She holds her hands wide apart as she starts telling me about how long the airplane ride was and what movie they watched.
We move into the living room and sit down. Bonnie is immediately off to explore the house. Her mother is in hot pursuit because the house hasn't been child proofed for many years. A pen with feathers on top captures her interest and then it is a little teddy bear that sits beside my computer. I hear splashing and know the cat fountain is being examined. She comes back and dries her hands on her Daddy's pants. This is so amusing that it happens several more times. She had a long nap and is a whirlwind of energy.
Tod and Helen have forgotten the toy bag, so I get out crayons and paper I have on hand for friends' kids. How long has it been? Nearly two years since they have been over. How is that even possible? Two years?
Tod and I chat as Allie sits on the floor near my feet and draws. She explains what she is doing and I ask if she can put a sun in the picture. “Yes, I can do that if you like.” Her language development is phenomenal. Her drawing skills are what you would expect of a three-year-old and I am grateful for the running commentary.
“How about a snake?” I ask.
“Yes, I will put a snake in the picture.” She draws a wiggly line and gives it hair.
We talk about her friends back home. She has just started preschool and we discuss what she likes best. I love the way little kids look at the world; such a different perspective from adults.
She holds up a crayon for her Daddy to see. “Look, I have one.” She breaks it in half. “Now I have two.” She drops them and picks up another. I bite my lip to stop from smiling as her Dad attempts to put a quick stop to this new game.
“Allie,” I say as a distraction, “there are two Christmas presents by the fireplace. See if you can find your name on one.”
She jumps up and dashes across the room. She looks at them carefully and yells, “Bonnie, here is a present for you.” She sits back down by my feet and carefully unwraps the book. She looks at the cover, and just like that, she is in my lap. “Will you please read this to me, Aunt Lois?”
I have a three-year-old snuggling into my lap before I even have a chance to decline. I don't know what to do other then read the story to her. When I finish Allie asks, “Will you please read it again, Aunt Lois?” How could I possible refuse?
We wiggle a little until we fit perfectly and I begin again. I am lightheaded. The ice encasing my heart cracks open and the pressure in my chest melts away.
Loneliness is dissolving. Anxiety that has grown like a cancer is releasing its grip. Muscles in my face relax and I feel a smile creasing my cheeks. I fight to keep the tears from spilling over and running down my face.
I am as light as a rainbow.
When I finish reading, her daddy says, “Allie, tell Aunt Lois thank you. It's time for us to go.”
“But Daddy, she hasn't read Bonnie's book yet.”
“Bonnie doesn't seem to be interested, Allie”
“But she has to read to Bonnie. Her feelings will be hurt if she doesn't read to Bonnie.”
“All right. Go get Bonnie and see if she wants to sit down and listen to her book. And then we need to leave for Grandma's house.”
Allie hops down and quickly returns with a reluctant Bonnie in tow. They wiggle into my lap, one on each side, with my arms around them. As I read the book to the two little girls, I feel a calm that has eluded me for a very long time. Dare I say, I feel happy.
When I finish the book, Allie negotiates with her Dad for one more reading because otherwise it wouldn't be fair. We wiggle some more and I begin again. When I close the book, the girls hop down and get ready to leave without any more stalling. Except for going to the bathroom, of course. Hugging these precious girls goodbye, I tell Tod and Helen, “Thank you, thank you so much for coming. This means more to me than you can possibly imagine.”
Standing on the sidewalk I watch them until they disappear around the curve. I go back inside and clean up the mess that always follows children around. And then I go upstairs, fluff my pillow, stretch out on the bed. I pick up the phone and call a friend I haven't talked to in months.
Author: Laura Nicol
Comments