Feb 26, 2021 4 min read

It looks like we might be moving toward the speck of light at the end of this pandemic tunnel. Maybe it’s the news of fewer COVID deaths, or maybe it’s the advent of a third vaccine that’s bringing this sense of hope.

More likely, for me at least, it was the sunshine this week. Sometimes when we’re stuck in the cold and dark, even the brief tease of warmth can trick us into thinking the worst is over.

But that sunshine was an excuse to get outside to remind myself there’s more to life than the heaps of grimy snow that line the roads. As I sat on the deck with my sleeves rolled up to let the vitamin D get in, I looked out across the yard and saw the remains of 2020.

Strewn atop the snow were the half-dozen toys I’d toss to Waylon the collie. At the back of the yard is the garden that provided enough tomatoes and kale to keep us and a few neighbors in vegetables well into October. At the middle of the yard is the fire pit with its semi-circle of slingback chairs, their legs still trapped in ice. From the eaves of the house are the wind chimes, gone quiet because of icicles that encase it.

I bought those chimes at a garden store while on a bicycle trip through eastern Ohio last July. Sitting there in the sunshine, I thought about my bike, which has been hanging from the garage ceiling since November.

Of all the many items that remind me of this terrible time, that bicycle is the brightest. It carried me out of the house and onto the trails, where I could feel safe and normal.

The reminders inside the house will be less happy: the kitchen radio that announced the rising death counts every day; the bottle of zinc tablets I took along with my vitamins every morning (because I read somewhere that zinc kills viruses); the wastebasket next to my desk that was a treasure trove for Waylon; the rack above the washing machine where I would hang my face masks to dry; the bottle of hand sanitizer I kept in the cup holder between the seats of my car.

On the shelf in the den are the books I read – mostly happy fiction because real life was scary enough; the plastic containers in which I would carry a batch of my snickerdoodles on my weekly trips to see my sweet daughter at college. And my phone’s FaceTime app – the portal through which I was able to lay eyes on my son who is 3,000 miles away.

Tucked away in a closet is the sewing machine I pulled out way back in March to fashion some homemade face masks. That was before the masks became ubiquitous, and inexpensively gotten.

And then there are all the plants I’ve tended. One of them, a wax-encased bulb, sent up and then burst forth with a red amaryllis around Christmas. Not wanting that to be the end of it, I trimmed it back and waited. The bulb is about to send me a second flower.

Staying in one place, and looking at the same things for months on end, will tend to confer onto the items a focus they wouldn’t otherwise deserve. With nowhere in particular to go and nobody to see, I wore the same comfy, fur-lined clogs almost every day since March. They are under the desk as I type this, reminders of how, like all of us, I’ve mostly stayed at home.

They’ve served me well. But when spring comes, I’m buying something new.

Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.