faces

A weary-eyed man rides the opposite direction on the wide Willamette bike path while I walk, breeze-driven in the brightness of Spring. I’m maybe a bit younger than the man, who chose not to wear a mask out here. I didn't wear one, either. There is sunshine, after all. A royal ceiling of sky, of atmosphere arraying itself beyond the cleverest sewing machine designs.

To the grocery store, sure, I go with face covered. To visit my parents and fill Mom's pillbox, of course (then I wear gloves, as well; they live independently where there are no medical caregivers).

Ahead of me, a woman of upper arm tattoos pushes a covered stroller. Passing, I maintain my social distance. A teen boy's tires whoosh as he weaves among us. A father and mother ride steady, tiny two-wheeled vehicles between them. The dad says to his smallest tyke, "I know you're tired; we're almost there."

I can’t begrudge the number of human faces. But I'm coming off a winter of distancing. In January Tim and I suffered Influenza A, which gave me time to read The Lord of the Rings, to savor every nuance of character and struggle again. Recovered from both illness and epic story, I continued the ordinary struggle: some difficult days; always a few unexpected gifts that offer and lend and become, sometimes, a healing humility.

Just as two women walking together ahead of me turn aside to view the river, I notice a bird of prey's wingspan above. White face and tail dip and rise between treetops. Please wait for me, eagle. I whip out camera and step slower, almost breaking my distance bubble with the women. The eagle glides away downstream.

We were supposed leave on Tim's birthday in early May. I was supposed to spend my 60th birthday in Bethlehem. Six months ago our tour guide, Michael (whose face I may not now become acquainted with), told me over the phone we would have a big party and gluten-free cake. Michael has led travel groups forever, and now he's in touch with hotels and buses and venues, organizing the postponed tour. Maybe this or that month, maybe then. Can we, will we enter into these new plans? Like much for many people who pass me on the bike path, question marks abound.

Like a gliding eagle, life events will follow their own courses.

I'm glad nothing stops Spring from arriving. In a different situation, akin to sci fi movies' story lines, the earth might have received greater hardships, from, say, a meteor or human-designed disaster. As a friend has mentioned on social media, this apocalypse is fairly lame. That's a light-hearted way of saying we'll take it. It is, however, truly a tragedy, a sorrow, a season of grief. I know a young man whose uncle died from the virus. I fear for my parents, especially because if one of them gets it, they will immediately be cut off from the other's face. After 64 years together, this kind of struggle would be most tragic.

For now, thankfully, the parents are all right. At our home, Tim has dug out and cleaned up his weight bench, long stored in our garden shed, since for years he's had a cheap gym membership (but now all gyms are closed). He cleared a space for my folding treadmill, and I think I'll use it the next afternoon I decide to go walking. Less traffic there. An unfolding view, as well, of two blossoming trees and birds discovering seeds of comfort.

Please wait for me, finches. I'll enjoy your little faces until you flit away.