At my old folk’s boarding house lately I carry on a bunch of conversations with myself.
A “soliloquy.” A fancy playwright word that describes talking aloud to yourself. Think Hamlet and Lady McBeth. Of course, those two usually command an audience.
Covid demands a soliloquy. Two weeks of quarantine. Dining room closed. Meals delivered to your apartment in styrofoam containers.
And worse news, another old-timer in our home passed away. My soliloquay: “Thanks, Lord, for giving me more time.”
Recovered mostly alone—except for occasional daughter and son visits. All four previously caught the germ. Now writing words to describe our ordeals: weak, tired, a little scared but all five Elams blessed with recovery.
Adding a recall from year 2000. I must have been asleep when our Yangtze River cruise boat steamed past Wu Han. Awake now. Like the rest of the world.
Photo at Shutterstock
