Day #44 Writing Through COVID-19: Wait for It...

We've been on a narrative poem kick of late: "Pied Piper," "Annabelle Lee," "Hiawatha." Yesterday's poem was Tennyson's "Charge of the Light Brigade." I don't remember reading the poem before, but my parents knew it and our discussion led us to a history lesson by Siri to learn which battle it commemorated.

My dad then said, "Do you know the last lines of this poem...?" But then he paused.

We waited.

He wrinkled his forehead.

We waited. And waited.
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Waiting is not especially hard. COVID-19 is slowing everyone's pace. I go to town every 8 to 10 days, where I move foglike through Hy-Vee's one-way aisles. We shoppers silently agree not to rush each other, not to push past as the woman six feet in front of us decides between boxed cake mixes. We have all the time in the world.

Patience is a virtue now, not merely as a kindness of spirit, but as respect for each other's wellbeing.
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"What poem are you thinking of?" my mother asked mildly.

"I can't remember," said my dad.

"It will come to you," she said.
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We had a good day. My dad is enjoying the increased correspondence that the new (old) computer provides.

My sister called to say Randy is wondering why she can't visit him in the hospital, which indicates he is still confused, but he is talking and asking questions, and the nurses are working to help him swallow, which would allow the feeding tube to be removed.

A big box from the Puzzle Warehouse arrived with five puzzles. My mom and I made good headway on the first one which depicted cats perched on tree limbs playing musical instruments.

I taught my classes.

My dad read his book on Lincoln.

My mom walked Vern and wrote in her journal.

And when I brought down slow-cooked barbecue ribs and corn casserole for supper, my dad emerged from the bedroom reciting without a pause:

"So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams."

"Thanatopsis!" he grinned. "William Cullen Bryant!"

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It was worth the wait.

Enough.
Stay well.
Write.

Allison