I'm not sure I've ever been as happy to be here in my house as I am at this minute. I'm not sure I've ever been as happy to put gas in my car as I was this afternoon. I'm not sure I'll ever see the Ikea parking lot completely empty again, or Memorial Drive without any cars, or every store and restaurant closed. Yesterday, I could not get a cup of coffee. That was the extent of my inconvenience. Small as that is, it was still enough to make that cup of coffee this morning the sweetest to taste, and I enjoyed every warm sip with my newfound appreciation.
What I left with was not much. Something of my father's, my dog, clothes, the laptop. When I was faced with the question of what I couldn't live without, I discovered my answer. Because my life is spent with camera in hand and my house is covered with photos, I always thought I'd haul it all with me in the event of an emergency exit. I didn't even take the good cameras. The root of that decision is based on learning this year that most things in life can be replaced, except life itself.
It doesn't feel like any day in particular. The edges are blurry; one day has passed into the next without clear definition or, oddly enough, event. Still, normal will creep her way into the shape of tomorrow. And with each passing day, ordinary will continue to solidify. I think I'll look back at these past few days as being a pearlescent blur. Fitting I believe, since Rita is Greek for pearl.