The first social distance weekend of March, I got a call, not a text, from someone I dated in 2018. We weren’t serious, but we had a connection. He asked if he could take me out after all this was over.
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A man jogs towards me on the sidewalk and then goes into the street to give me six feet of space. I wave and smile. He does too. In that moment, there is a connection of care. In the necessary distance, I link with this stranger. It’s a total juxtaposition; we join through separation. Bizarre.
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I clip into my spin bike and look around the room. I spot the familiar faces and think, These guys are always here. They must come all the time. Way more than me.
Before I even start the workout, I beat myself up a bit. Why?
The music starts to speed up. I catch my rhythm and try to dismiss the thoughts.
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I walked into the dark IMAX theater a few minutes late. Without my special 3D glasses, I saw fuzzy orange butterfly images and greenery. In the crowd, kids stood in front of their chairs with their arms out in expectation. I chose a seat up high so I could enjoy the movie and the children trying to catch monarch magic.
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Roaches. They haunt my first memories. In Lubbock, TX circa age two, my twin sister and I both woke up from bad dreams. We set out to seek comfort. Reaching our parents required a journey across the house.
We knew endless dark bugs waited for us.
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The lobby of my YMCA was in full Saturday bustle. I chirped my entry card and veered to the right around the staircase. Parents herded their kids, trying to make an exit.
“I don’t LIKE salad!” I heard a toddler announce right before he almost ran into me.
I scooched out of his way and smiled. Honestly, it didn’t sound like he was throwing a fit. It was more an honest assertion.
I wanted to lean down and say, “I feel you buddy.”
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My little VW Beetle was parked close to a curb at a friend’s house. Their grassy lawn sat on the other side. As I opened the door to get in, the sharp lime-green corner stuck in the earth. As hard as I pulled, I couldn’t get it free.
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The cop took a U-turn at the light, following me in my lane.
“There is a police car behind me,” I explained to my sister on the phone. I put my blinker on and turned. “Oh no, they turned too.”
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I met Trice at The Absinthe House on Pearl Street. The bar doesn’t exist anymore, but when it did they had weekly reggae nights. I spotted him immediately—that woven tam cap slouching over two kind eyes, those baggy jeans swaying gracefully to the music. He asked me to dance, and I asked him what he did—proving that first impressions aren’t everything. That sometimes, the soul’s story sounds like The Wailers when it sings.
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