The streets of the world are still, other than the occasional idiot who decides that the chance of driving 95 mph down the center of New York is just too good to pass up. Citizens look out their windows, astonished, as distant hills come into view, the waters of Venice and Paris are looking weirdly like rivers, and goats are trimming the village hedges in Wales.
My house is on a hill.
I live surrounded by trees, my driveway has been taken over by a flock of turkeys, and the neighbors’ driveway camera filmed a trio of mountain lions strolling past. So it’s quiet, sure–but I hear the freeway. It’s the one thing I don’t like about living here, that constant hum. I don’t see it, I don’t smell it, but it’s there, from five in the morning until late at night.
Not this month.
This month I have to actively listen to be aware of freeway noise. And in a happy-Easter Zoom meetup with my English family, those who live under the flight path to Heathrow said that it’s weirdly quiet, like the days after the Icelandic volcano when workers at the Manchester airport held a football game on the runway.
I miss things, yes, oh very yes. I hate not snuggling with the grandkids, not meeting a friend for coffee, not going to events that celebrate the book. Though I am so very grateful that none of us are ill, that we don’t have to line up for free groceries, that none of us work in a hospital. And I’m about to start writing the next book without a study (which is currently our community workout studio.)
Wish me luck.
So, how are you doing?