Sam has been eating the mother-in-law’s socks, which she persists on leaving, strewn, on the kitchen floor. He is the most interesting member in our house these days.

Sometimes I can’t stand it, listening to people thump around the house, the radio blathering on and on about covid and vaccines and anti-mask protestors. I run into a friend, and he says his friend hasn’t spoken to his wife in five days. It’s unnatural to stay cooped up for long periods with each other. All of us, requiring others beyond our cramped households, solitude, travel to other places, for a sense of well-being.

Still, things change by minute degrees. Wood pigeons coo on power lines, and there’s movement in the rookery beside the football pitch. The days lengthen, minute by minute, two minutes a day. Gardeners examine their yards and hedgerows, assessing their possibilities. I wear perfume, and I think of my painting supplies, the desire to lay a line, line after line, color upon color, following feeling and whim to new ends. “I paint flowers so they will not die.” (Frida Kahlo)

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