The garbage trucks never stopped picking up the weekly trash in my neighborhood. When we moved into semi-shutdown and mask-mandates last year, the third week of March 2020, the guys still picked up the garbage. This small act of normalcy lifted my spirits. Back then, when we knew so little about Covid-19, and how it might be transmitted, the garbage workers continued on. I am still amazed by this act of routine efficiency: I make trash; it gets hauled away.
Likewise, I love clearing my search history. This is probably a lot less efficient that the weekly garbage pick up, but after I explore the internet down myriad rabbit holes, I can wipe away the history with a click. But of course, it isn’t really wiped away, and I will be bombarded by the facedbook bots (see how I did a typo there, as if I could outwit the team?) with ads for hair-growth oil, etc. I leave a trail of scattered stars in my virtual footpath.
Meanwhile, death rates from covid climb in India. Here is Arundhati Roy’s heartbreaking take of the situation.
Of the two mourning doves born in the first batch this spring on my balcony, only one survived. It flew away right on schedule, though still clothed in baby feathers.
It takes seven years for a trillium seed to germinate, create a tuber, and sprout. The one I planted years ago has been flowering for the past two years. It might take another seven years for a companion to grow alongside.
Today, as fog misted over the trees breaking into bloom, I drank my morning coffee, listening to birdsong; yet another small wonder in this time of covid.