There is no news from work yet and this uncertainty weighs on me. I try not to think about it but it stays at the back of my mind like a leech unwilling to let go. They need time to sift through the government information, to check numbers, and make informed decisions. I understand this and in a way it is a relief. The longer they take, the longer I remain home. Safe.
I work all day on an audio piece for Queer Out Here, losing myself in the sounds of my daily walks. There are more sirens than I remember hearing on the day of the recordings, but also a quiet I do not associate with my daily surroundings. Life in my part of the world continues to sound like an endless Sunday. It also reminds of where I grew up, a quiet village on the outskirt of a city. Traffic would pass every now and again, entering the village from its one main street, and be out in the blink of an eye.
I loop the sounds over and over in slowly decreasing timelines until they become indistinguishable from one another, exploding in a cacophony of birds, sirens, and captured voices.
A first draft completed, my partner and I go for a short walk as evening falls. We follow the shortest loop, a jaunt around the closest park to us. People are not mass gathering in it. Groups remain thin, appearing to be from the same household, discussions with other groups spread in a wide two metres circle. I wonder if they are more fearful of the spread now that we are to return to work. I am.
Back home we play a game of Rummikub before I cook dinner. I juggle an assortment of pans to prepare pasta with pesto and chargrilled asparagus. I prop the asparagus carefully on top of the pasta in the plates, finishing the decoration with fresh basil leaves. I gaze at the food for a moment, wanting to take this in. This is not a restaurant dish by any means but it looks good to me. I will miss this. It has been lovely to cook again, to make a mountain of dishes and take time. When I return to work, time will slip away again and I am in no doubt that cooking is one of the first thing I will cull. In the now, I remind myself.
I bring the plates to the living room and set them on the table. Tonight we are not watching TV. We cheers our glasses of water and tuck in. I bite slowly, deliberately, into the pasta and vegetables, letting each mouthful release its full aroma and textures. It is good to be present.