TheBanyanTree: Sunday

[Monique Colver]

A few days ago, Sunday, the three of us ventured out into the wilderness, spurred on by blue skies and warm temperatures. The chance we could be isolated for some period of time pushed us forward, so with no protection whatsoever, not even a 45, much less a Glock, we headed out of town, down Highway 14. We saw clumps of people at hiking trailheads, everyone anxious to mix with everyone else. These are the people who say, "What virus? I'm young and I take care of myself, it's not for me, this virus." I applaud their certainty while we drive by, and wish them well, but only in my head.

We drive some more until we come to a park that is sparsely populated. That's the kind of population we like. There are people, some groups, but we will not be close to any of them. Andrew and Ash set off for a walk while I sit at a picnic table which may have recently hosted a family of ten who are now in the ICU of their local hospital, but I can't tell that from there. I face the Columbia River, but it's overgrown at the shore and I can't see it, but I can see the mountains on the Oregon side, and the sun with its first glorious rays of the season. I look longingly at the public restroom, but that way lies certain death. I console myself with knowing that it is a good day for my urinary tract. 

It isn't always, and my doctor has given up on the problem and referred me to a specialist. I have to wait a month for this appointment, but they are doing me a great favor for which I will be eternally grateful. 

I bake in the sun. And then, "Damn, I forgot sunblock." 

My arms and legs start to itch. I get hives easily. Stress, exhaustion, sun. 

STILL. I am out in the sun! Maybe the last time ever! There is talk of eliminating the oldest of us, as in one of those old movies where the older and weaker of the clan are pushed out of the airlock, where we would die immediately and make the rest of the trip more pleasurable. I'm not that old yet, but I believe my Parkinson's could qualify me for the old and useless category, though I still work. 

Will there be a death panel? Do I get to testify before the decision is made? Maybe have us do some agility tests? Perhaps cognition tests? Perhaps as I stand in front of a bipartisan panel deciding my time limit I can yell out, "I am not an animal!" 

In my dreams. Maybe my nightmares.

A group walk past me and one member stares at me, as if he wants my table, or to serve on my death panel. It doesn't matter, since neither is going to happen. 

My boys return to me, my saviors, and we drive back by going over a bridge and back on the Oregon side. We arrived home exhausted but having enjoyed the sun. 

And now we wait. For the sun to come back. For the virus to leave. For the giant swarms of radioactive spiders to sink back into the ground. For the wild animals to come to an agreement on their plan to eliminate us. Whatever. We wait.

Monique
Sent from my iPad