“A Day in Pajamas”

            It was 3:30 a.m. when the wind came whistling through the open window of our bedroom. I got up and peered at a rainy, hazy fog highlighted by the downtown streetlamps. From our bedroom window, it looked like a big party until I listened and heard only the wind. I decided to stay up and walked downstairs.

            Friday, March 20, 2020 today, and the blizzard has arrived. I’m still in my pajamas, and I may not change until I begin making dinner. I was fearful this morning. I couldn’t break the thought of getting sick and ruminating on the final days of my life. Then Christine readied for work and looked petrified.

            “I have a runny nose.”

            That’s all she said. I walked her outside and into the garage where she got in her car and looked up at me. I wanted to stare making sure I could see every aspect of my wife in case she was sick. I kissed her on the cheek, and she drove away. I stood in the cold and wet out on the driveway in my pajamas. The outdoor ritual I manage every day to say goodbye to my wife felt different today. There was a lingering reflection of impermanence.

            Through the blizzard I watched news, reruns, and finally a documentary on the 1918 Spanish Flu Pandemic. At first, I wasn’t sure if that was the right thing to do, but as it turned out, the history helped. We’re one-hundred years distant, and we survived.

            I called Christine and her nose isn’t runny anymore. Sounding relieved, I think she’s right in saying it was “from the open window and weather change.” I did put away the alcohol and thermometer she’d extricated from the cabinet in a rushed venture to make sure she had no fever this morning.

            The frolic of the last two weeks of hibernating and enjoying quiet times, shopping for shut-ins, and making my rounds to the studio has been replaced by fear, today. My pajamas provide a blanket of comfort and sets in cement that I can’t venture out. Or, that I shouldn’t.

            Julie London is on the Pandora as I have returned to the upstairs bedroom where I can now clearly view Little Traverse Bay. From its southernmost Nine Mile Point all the way up to the farthest reaches of western Harbor Springs, the frozen bay sits idle, covered in a new coat of white. Perhaps when Nature’s version of lymphocytes and leukocytes melt away and the warmth returns, we can venture out into wide open spaces and breathe fresh air. We can meander boulevards and parkways, bike trails, and kayak estuaries.

            But for now, I’ll spend my day in pajamas.