Confinement Messes with the Mind

I’m one of the lucky ones, not home alone, but that didn’t seem to matter. “Let’s move to Florida.” The words burst out of my head and into my mouth on a gray wintery afternoon in January. One of my sisters had just told us that they’d bought a home in their favorite Florida west coast city and were leaving the extremely windy and sandy California high desert.

“But we’ve only been in this apartment for six months?” my husband said. “You said you didn’t like Florida when we were sailing around there just two years ago? And didn’t you say that you loved this space, the height, the view, and the location, never wanting to move again?” My words came back to slap me in the face. “Never mind what I said back then,” I said, pouting.

“We’ve the resources to do it. The cost of living will be lower. It will be warm in the winter. Family is there. I can’t stand the winter, the pandemic, and the isolation, even with the virtual get togethers and weekly masked trips to the grocery store. We've done nothing that we love to do in this city for almost a year. I’m at wits end.”

“But you’ve been writing almost every day, like a writer should. DC is a perfect place to be a writer. My family is here. Our friends are here. I’m afraid that once down there, we’ll want to come back. We always come back to here after we’ve moved away. Remember Baltimore, Memphis, and the year aboard the boat? There’s something here that always draws us back. All this will return to normal soon. Be patient.” His voice was calm, a counterpoint to my hysteria.

“But I can write from anywhere, and people love to visit Florida,” I said. “Who knows when or if the museums, theaters and our favorite places will ever open again?”

“If that’s what you really want, if that will make you happy, then that’s what we’ll do.” With a look of resignation, he sighed and said nothing else as he turned away. It was time to cook dinner.

I pulled him into my office and together we scoured the internet searching for places to live in the only city we agreed would be livable for us, St. Pete. There were possibilities, but after two hours I confessed, “We’ll probably never reproduce what we have here. I do love this view of the Potomac River, the Basin and tree lined drives. I love being able to take the metro almost everywhere.” I paused. “Maybe we’re not house people. The houses, although great buys, will need improvements we desire. Renting avoids the improvements issue. We crave the views from tall buildings. We have one already, don’t we? I guess we can visit family there as soon as we get vaccinated.”

He smiled, gave me a hug, stood, and said, “So, do you want fish, chicken or chops for dinner tonight?”

“Chops,” I said as I abandoned the laptop to help out in the kitchen.

Halfway through February, I sat at my desk, looking out at the Potomac “gone blurry” by the sleeting snow from the latest arctic blast. I can still see the water. I can write from here, I guess. But, I can’t take it forever.”