Circles

The courtyard of the local art museum sponsors a couple of chalk artists every couple weeks to brighten up the outdoor eating area. We went down to get take-out for lunch. Too many people, too bright and noisy after isolating for so long. Music on the outdoor speakers. Circles and crosses, six feet apart, marking where to stand for the food court. People drinking, eating, chattering. I am blinded by all the activity. This flinching feels like a sickness, but look: that person’s mask has slipped below her nose, those people have no masks at all, those folks are sitting too close, sharing food. I take my cardboard containers gratefully and hurry back to the car, sanitize my hands, feel like a crazy person. 


We made some progress taking down the old tomato plants and cages. Time to think about the winter garden: kale, collards, lettuce, arugula. Leafy green things that grow well in the cold. Broccoli. Garlic. It seems more important than ever to focus on these real and immediate things. I was going to say we at least have some control in the garden, but I don’t want to make god laugh. You plant your pretty rows, symmetrical or not, and mutter a few prayers: for rain, for sun, for not fire, for clean air, for no gophers, for a good chill, but not too much. Oh, it goes on. But we do it. We do it for the dirt on our hands, for the smell of the sun on the earth, for the deep satisfaction of watching plants come up where once there was nothing at all. And if we’re lucky, for the food.