I am home now. And my mind works through memories from this semester like it’s churning them into butter. Around and around – forcing them into something solid, something which won’t drip through my fingers.
My camera role is filled with records of many in-between, unpolished moments from this fall: Drunken selfies, silly videos, unexpected sunsets. Looking through the photos, I can hear the same conversation playing out with each picture or video: “Oh wait, you recorded that?! Who was it for?” the surprised friend demands.
“No one,” I say, pulling my phone away from suspicious eyes. It’s funny, how they assume the image is going somewhere. To show someone who isn’t here what we’re doing and how great it is! As if I need to prove something.
“Well, can I see it?”
“Later.” I brush them away, knowing there won’t be a later.
No one will care later, except for me. And I must thank by past self; she knew I’d want to see what we were doing and how great it was. She knew I needed proof.
Quarantine has sparked a new fear of emptiness in me––in all of us, I think. It’s the fear of empty days and empty nights. Empty beds and empty streets; empty plans and empty aspiration. Empty cocktails glasses…which momentarily hide the emptiness.
Being back home––a place now closely associated with quarantine isolation––that fear has crept back into my life. And without the buttery memories as subsistence, I fear I’ll fade away.
So, while I churn through the past three months, I try to fill my days at home productively:
-I’ve been working on my exam papers; but before too long, the game of writing becomes a game of word-staring. I do more hair-twirling than typing. -I’ve been playing guitar, but before too long, my amateur fingers are worn away by merciless strings. Besides, I still can’t play the F-chord, which all good songs apparently require (the excuses we tell ourselves). -I’ve been going on walks, but before too long, my nose starts running under my mask, and the good ideas don’t come as they used to, and sun sets far too early. I miss the magic of summer evening strolls. -I’ve been playing with my dogs; but before too long, one’s age saddens me, while the other’s youthful energy becomes impossible to match. I wonder if they feel time’s passage differently – from me, and from each other. -I’ve been exercising; but before too long, I convince myself that diet is the key to health, not running. And yet, I still have dessert every night. -I’ve been reading Untamed; but before too long, the author’s pain becomes my pain and I can’t continue. I should applaud Glennon Doyle though, I hope to someday touch a reader so deeply. -I’ve been talking to friends; but before too long, I claim those exam papers demand my attention. Is this a fib every introvert tells? -I have been working on my papers though, I swear; but before too long, they are submitted. I wish my professors happy reading.
Even with this bulleted list of activities – paper writing, guitar practice, walks, dog time, workouts, reading, virtual catch-ups, and paper submitting – it is hard to forget the blank page encompassing them.
And yet, I’m still pulling out my phone to record the un-extraordinary. Capturing the weird, the silly, the bored, the ugly, the fun, the endearing. My brothers singing a goofy song. My dog curling up next to my mom on the couch. My dad filling up the bird feeder.
“Uh oh––you recorded that?! Who are you sending it to?” the startled family member asks.
“No one,” I reply. But of course, I’m not being entirely truthful.
I’m saving the records for a nostalgic friend; she will no doubt be missing quarantine someday.
Quiet Histories 