An Ice Rink Becomes a Morgue

Spain turns an ice rink into a morgue. That’s the headline today. One of many. I wonder if the ice rink is kept cold – I wonder if the caskets, dark wood and slim, have names on them. Have you adapted to this yet? Strange how quickly us humans adapt to things – the wonderful things and the frightening things.

It’s my mothers Birthday today. I am the black sheep in the family. I am the first born and the quickest to leave the nest. I make a bit of a mess of my life early on, and then I return, my feathers ruffled, my walls high, but wiser all the same.

Since the age of 18 I have usually been in frustrating, sometimes joyful relationships, that found me celebrating elsewhere, found me wanting. Needing. But things are different now. They need to be.

My daughter, her eyes not yet decided on final color, requires her family. She is pure and she is clean and she is loved by us all. She adores her two cousins – they have beautiful blonde hair like my sister and her husband and they hug her tightly, the older one whispers in her ear, “I woveeee you.

We cannot gather together in their large windowed living room this year – we must maintain our social distance. You know this. I know this. All of us, six feet apart, know this. But we are still together, my family and I, on my Mothers Birthday. We drop off gifts and we connect online. My Father builds her a greenhouse and time moves on.

That may be the most reliable way to mark time these days – allowing it to just move on.