Day #153 Writing Through COVID-19: Suspense. And Why I Write.

Ten minutes into my long Sunday run, my dad called. "Are you busy?"

Still fresh and breathing well, I asked if I could call him back in an hour. "Yes, of course."

But 45 minutes later my phone rang again. "Your mother and I went outside for a bit. We thought we might have missed you calling me back."

With one mile to go, I was now gulping air like a guppy. "ALMOST. DONE. I'LL CALL. SOON--"

I hung up and tried to pound out the final stretch. 

But my concentration was shot. Instead, I began to imagine all the reasons my dad would call me twice within an hour. It must be an emergency.

Something with my siblings...

Or my mother had had another TIA--or a full-out stroke...

I told myself not to think of the worst. 

Maybe they were calling about Vern. Or the upcoming family reunion (that no one has told them yet they will not be able to attend...nor will I, as a contagion-carrier from the unmasked ACSD).

My run had been good until the last mile, which was slow and uncomfortable, physically and mentally.

I got into the car and blasted myself with the airconditioning until I'd stopped panting, then dialed my dad.

"Hello, Alli." He sounded okay. I hoped for the best. "This isn't an emergency," he said. (Oh? Maybe you could have mentioned that the first two times you called?) "But I wanted you to know we found the charger to the scooter!"

I felt a surge of relief push against a surge of dismay, something like a tornado of response. 

I was, in fact, intrigued to know the finale of the five-month missing-adaptor story. 

My dad had found the charger on top in their storage unit, on the seat of his first scooter (he's on his second, designed to work both indoors and outdoors). I'm guessing he and my mom were placing items in the storage unit on the crazy day they were moving to my place and somehow set the scooter's charger on the other chair's seat.

I love a happy ending. So I'm glad he called. 

But twice during my run? Sheesh.
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What a beautiful day on Eagle Avenue. 

I must call it my last day of summer. I have meetings with students and colleagues over the next two days (and a haircut!), and then Wednesday brings me to our first of three in-service days. 

We will be in class with students a week from tomorrow.
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I know 2020 is by all measures a crazy, disrupting, scary, terrible year. But as I close down my summer, I realize the following:

I am in better physical shape than I have been in years, having run more than 200 miles since mid-June when I started keeping track. 

My relationship with my parents has experienced deep healing, at a time in my life when such reconciliation was no longer even on my radar. 

I've been writing almost daily for the past five months. Writing demands I pay attention. It forces me to reflect. It requires me to distill my thoughts, sort my meaning. When I close this blog with the admonition to WRITE, it is because I believe writing (blogging, journaling, letter-writing, book-writing) is how humanity can slow and focus our thinking. 
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So tonight I'm realizing that Summer 2020 might have been my best (worst) one yet.

Enough.
Be well.
WRITE.

Allison

Last night I dreamed I was holding this boy.