Short Stories
I read a fantastic essay in the New Yorker. Through photographs and short stories, the magazine showed its readers what 24 hours in New York City is currently like. Some of these vignettes were funny, a few heart breaking and one was incredibly joyful. I loved it. I loved it so much I decided to copy it.
8:30 p.m. Friday, May 1.
When the clock hit 8:20 p.m., I flew around my house clicking on all the outside lights. Then 10 minutes later my dog, Milo and I sat on the upstairs balcony's floor, eager to see what would happen. The class of 2020 was shoved into a gloomy situation. COVID-19 flipped the switch on graduation ceremonies and parties, proms, the whole shebang. To make up for it, Los Alamos worked to throw a little light their way. At 8:20 p.m. Friday, everyone was invited to turn on their outside lights, honk their horns and cheer for the graduates. From our perch, I could see porch lights illuminating a few homes, old timey band music wafted faintly in the air while laughter erupted from some corner of the neighborhood. In the distance, I could hear a chorus of honking of car horns. The sun had vanished and nighttime blanketed everything but it was still clear that somewhere, there was a party going on.
10 p.m. Friday, May 1
One of my summer time traditions is to end Friday night with sitting outside with a glass of...something. Sometimes it is wine, sometimes it is a cosmo, sometimes it is sparkling water. I usually bring my iPad and watch a movie or TV show but every once in a while, I abandon that and stare dreamily off into space. I listen to crickets chirp or gaze at the trees that serve as a natural screen to my neighbor's. Tonight, I sip red wine and listen to the wind shift and rustle the trees' leaves. Maybe I'll offer a silent cheer to my family, my friends and co-workers because we all did it. Despite an international crisis and looming uncertainty, we endured and survived another week. I'll drink to that.
11 a.m Saturday, May 2
When it was strongly advised that you wear a face mask when going out in public, I dug out the pink fleece gator left over from the trip to Antartica to pull over my face when meandering through the aisles of the grocery store. Since I don't sew the gator seemed to be a great idea. My mom and I pull into the parking lot at Newman's plant nursery in Santa Fe and we encase our faces with masks. With no clouds in its way, the sun beats down. I am starting to regret my choice to use a hot pink fleece wrap as protection against a virus in summer. Walking in and out of greenhouses, the lower half of my face feels sweaty and the fleece smells oddly stale and musty. I fidget with it constantly and at one point I accidentally sneeze into my fuzzy face cozy. I think, "I just destroyed my protective shield."
8:45 p.m. Sunday, May 3
My old job infuriated me on a nearly daily basis. I spent a lot of time stomping around my home, with a figurative storm cloud cracking thunder and zapping lighting bolts above my head. I would complain about my employment to nearly everyone. One of the things that calmed me down and dissolved the figurative thunder storm above my head was going outside and admiring the view. I would sit outside and watch the sun sink behind the mountains. The first stars would suddenly appear, like flecks of diamonds, and the sky would transform from blue, to a buttery haze, then purple, then black. Birds glided past me, airplanes raced silently before vanishing into the horizon, cars moved back and forth - their headlights glinting in the dusk. All of this gifted me a wonderful sense of calm. I felt certain that everything was going to be alright. Eventually, this thought proved to be correct because I left that job and returned to what I love - journalism. With the weather now getting warmer and the days becoming longer, I continue this routine of sitting outside to observe nighttime's daily arrival. It reminds me once again that everything is going to be alright.
11 a.m Saturday, May 2
When it was strongly advised that you wear a face mask when going out in public, I dug out the pink fleece gator left over from the trip to Antartica to pull over my face when meandering through the aisles of the grocery store. Since I don't sew the gator seemed to be a great idea. My mom and I pull into the parking lot at Newman's plant nursery in Santa Fe and we encase our faces with masks. With no clouds in its way, the sun beats down. I am starting to regret my choice to use a hot pink fleece wrap as protection against a virus in summer. Walking in and out of greenhouses, the lower half of my face feels sweaty and the fleece smells oddly stale and musty. I fidget with it constantly and at one point I accidentally sneeze into my fuzzy face cozy. I think, "I just destroyed my protective shield."
8:45 p.m. Sunday, May 3
My old job infuriated me on a nearly daily basis. I spent a lot of time stomping around my home, with a figurative storm cloud cracking thunder and zapping lighting bolts above my head. I would complain about my employment to nearly everyone. One of the things that calmed me down and dissolved the figurative thunder storm above my head was going outside and admiring the view. I would sit outside and watch the sun sink behind the mountains. The first stars would suddenly appear, like flecks of diamonds, and the sky would transform from blue, to a buttery haze, then purple, then black. Birds glided past me, airplanes raced silently before vanishing into the horizon, cars moved back and forth - their headlights glinting in the dusk. All of this gifted me a wonderful sense of calm. I felt certain that everything was going to be alright. Eventually, this thought proved to be correct because I left that job and returned to what I love - journalism. With the weather now getting warmer and the days becoming longer, I continue this routine of sitting outside to observe nighttime's daily arrival. It reminds me once again that everything is going to be alright.
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