Musings on the present time

Photo by Photo Boards on Unsplash

“Are you writing?” he asked. “No,” I said.

No, I’m not writing. Not even now, not even during these unprecedented (to use a ridiculously over-used word) times.

I’m not writing. Even though I follow my poor daughter around the house beseeching her to document this moment. “You’re a filmmaker!” I say. “This is historic!” I say.

And yet.

I find I have just about nothing to say about this time.

It’s rather odd.

It’s almost like nothing is happening, so there is nothing to write about.

Of course, I realize what a lap of privilege I occupy to even be able to write that.

I could write about gratitude, I suppose. That would be appropriate.

It’s strange. It’s like there’s a negative impression. A shadow where something used to be. An imprint in the sand where someone used to lie.

A memory of my former life.

Connections with people… I still have them. Or some semblance of them.

But not being able to step forward and hug the granddaughter of a friend (who I think could really use a hug), not being able to embrace my dance partners, not being able to playfully shove the arm of a friend as he cracks a ribald joke during a hike…