Member-only story
What Day Is It? It’s Sunday.
Tomorrow Will Be Sunday Too
I’ve been at home for months. Everything nonessential is closed, I’ve been furloughed from my job, and all of the engagements on my calendar have evaporated.
The concerts I held tickets for. My camp reunion in Nebraska. The trip to see my California grandsons.
All on hold indefinitely.
Day after day, it’s just me at home alone, reading and writing and drinking coffee and playing the piano and talking on the phone with my friends.
Once a day, I walk to my sister’s house, where we sit in her backyard, yards away from each other, and chat about her garden and the latest Covid-19 news and what we’ve been up to since we last spoke. (Not much.)
Every day is the same. (Unless it’s raining, in which case I drive to my sister’s house instead of walking.)
I’m not complaining. I’ve always enjoyed lots of alone time. I know that I’ve got it very good, and I’m grateful for that.
But? Since every day is the same, when I wake up in the morning, I never have any idea what day it is.
Today is going to be just like yesterday.
And tomorrow will be just like today.
