AMIDST THE PANDEMIC

Northern Kentucky University

There is a single, white dog hair on the dresser; I blow on it like I would a dandelion and watch it fall to the carpet in the same manner as a feather. If all the hairs on my dog’s back turned to feathery wings, I don’t think he’d fly. Rather, he’d run around in circles trying to catch them, and snort after accidentally flapping enough to raise his paws off the grass.

I’m not a car person. I can’t name the make or year of a random vehicle speeding by on the highway. My automobile expertise doesn’t go beyond knowing where to put the gas pump in, or how to check the oil. But still, I drive. Mostly to Kroger. Pretty much every day. “We need more lettuce for the bunnies,” Mom says. “Oh, can you pick up some more cheese?” Sure, Dad. Keys, license, phone, shoes: proceed to the car. I keep forgetting to throw away the empty water bottles littering the passenger seat. I tell myself it doesn’t really matter—they aren’t moldy and no one’s going to sit there, anyway. Seatbelt, reverse, radio: put the pedal to the metal, girl. Show that 35 milesper-hour back road who’s boss. I crank up the A/C and grind the fresh air between my molars like it’s bubblegum—savor the free gas particles, unmuffled by a cloth mask and untainted with the scent of hand sanitizer. I drive slowly, almost unnecessarily so, taking advantage of the temporary haven. Park, wallet, mask: here we are again. As I walk through the supercenter’s entry, I scan the lanes of cashiers; it looks like Wendy and Lauren are mid-shift. It must be Tuesday. I grab a cart and instinctually turn right toward the deli. Cheese Grandma should be here. The same sweet old lady works most days slicing up fancy cheeses my father and I will eventually eat on crackers and sandwiches. If it weren’t for the fact that we liked to experiment every week, I’m sure Cheese Grandma would know our usual order by heart. Line, checkout, receipt: I pick out my Secret Snack (definition: a special treat designated for the person or people who went through the trouble of going to the grocery store. A reward. A term coined by my father). My breath fogs up my glasses as I regurgitate a Thanks! to Wendy. I can’t wait to take off the mask: musty, musty, musty. I’m ready to get back in my car. Seatbelt, reverse, radio: I pull out of the parking lot and turn left at the light where I normally continue straight. I mosey down a new back road, taking

note of the different landscaping of the houses sprouted between long stretches of tall grass. I feel every bump in the pavement and sense the reverberations of each pothole dip. I see ancient garden gnomes and muted-yellow slides. I drive: alone, slowly, onward.

I’m relieved not to be allergic to peanut butter. My mother told me that, when she was my age, her parents made her eat lima beans and drink plain milk. She couldn’t leave the table until she finished her plate. They never gave her true dessert—but she was allowed to eat PB&J. I think we can teach gratitude in softer ways. My mother used to write me notes with smiley faces and hearts, and tuck them into my lunchbox: this is one of those ways.

My dog frequently tries to lick inside my ear. Of all the body parts (toes, feet, hands, nose) he aims specifically for the external acoustic meatus. One time, I gave in, and just let him have at it. It was like a temporary, aggressive, ticklish swimmer’s ear infection. I firmly believe he wouldn’t have stopped licking if I didn’t make him. I tell myself dogs discover through taste and he was trying to lick my brain. He wants to get to know me better. He wants to be my friend. Maybe we should let people love us in the ways they know how.

When my grandma was dying, I was thousands of miles away. My mother asked me if I wanted to call her, because it might be my last chance. I said Yes, okay. I was sitting on a metal bench outside of a Carrabba’s the last time I ever spoke to my Grandma. I knew it was the last time. I tried to think about the warmest thing I could say to her, what words I wanted her to carry into death. I didn’t know what her last moments would consist of. If her final thoughts as a living being were going to be about our phone conversation, I had to make it a good one. Months later, I slid my finger up a wooden handrail: I’d dangled there before, when my hands were too small to carry grief. I was told to look through my grandma’s jewelry: skim and see if there was anything I wanted. I found a Ziploc bag full of earrings. Lots of hoops: most of them ornamented with a cross or fake jewels. I chose a few pairs, knowing I’d never wear them, and tucked them in my pocket. I’d spent countless nights asleep in the pink room across the hall. I’d mountain-climbed the spiral staircase and spilled Cheerios on the linoleum kitchen floor. I’d gotten pruney toes in the pool and left my swimsuit, dripping, on the porch. I knew what I wanted. I’d lived there well for years, and still, I left with a pocketful of my grandma’s things feeling like a grave robber.