Let me say upfront that I did not have COVID. My poor niece has it, though, and she’s been suffering. Ever the momma, though, Alison opted to quarantine in a tent in the yard (more on that in a moment) rather than expose her two children to the virus.
My own illness was far more plebeian, though fairly uncomfortable in its own special way. It laid me low for most of last week and has left me fatigued and cranky. Which is one reason that it’s been, good grief, 11 days since I last posted here.
Still trying to form coherent thoughts, as well as to catch up on assignments whose deadlines I missed. I’ve also been dropping off things I think my niece could use: ice for the cooler, washed grapes, chicken noodle soup, Ritz crackers and, for fun, a sleeve of Otter Pops. (We’d been reminiscing about freezer pops recently, so when I saw a box of 80 OPs for just $3.29 in the “manager’s special” bin, I snatched it up.)
I don’t go into her home or her tent, or even near them. Instead, I set the stuff near the front door and text her kids to come get them. They come out with masks on, chat briefly (from a distance) about how it’s going and go back into the plague house.
About that tent: A friend of Alison’s referred to the quarantine tent as “the ’Rona Cabana,” and that earworm* would not leave my head.
The only way to get it out was, of course, to write about it.