My body feels electrically charged, something in the air, in the battering wind. The world outside is in a weighty, gray, unsettled state of disturbance, an atmospheric manifestation our region’s rising viral surge. Must get groceries, fast!
Many wear masks now, averting eyes, swinging away for a wide berth; a woman tallies entering customers, maintaining quota. I search my pockets and realize I changed my coat just as I left home. No list.
Starting with produce, I scan carefully over each array when a panicked realization strikes: high-value items could disappear as I dawdle. I rush to the bakery and score the last loaf of Hannaford’s asiago cheese bread. Intensity buzzes and bounces between carts. I scurry to the cooking aisle and grab the last two 5-pound bags of flour (only to be thwarted at checkout – one per customer). I totally forgot to look for toilet paper.
Back home, text alerts light up my phone – windstorm! Likely to lose power! Charge your phone, do your laundry, wash the dishes, fill water bottles. Before any of that, I sprint to my computer. My tip sheet is due today – Finalize edits! Send! Then there’s my full manuscript, one last quick scan, get it to Molly for the last round of edits! Who knows how long our power might be gone? Even as I type, the lights flicker. Must get this blog out before we lose power! Winds whip and roar, windows rattle, heart pounds.
Jonathan is in-house at the hospital since last night, uncertain of when he might return. This is feeling apocalyptic. I think I need a drink.
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 232: 267 words, TOTAL = 38,008; 21,992 remaining
Robin Clifford Wood is an award-winning author, poet, and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her children, grandchildren, and granddogs.