I’m working at home but find myself stood at the window watching a once illustrious plant be almost decimated by the Cornish wind. I’m cursing the elements at the seeming injustice. I can see pink petals flying and feel my heart sink with them. I feel like crying, but the phone rings.
It’s my 96 year old neighbour, Thelma, asking if I can help bring in the heavy box of delivered shopping on her doorstep. Of course, I say, I’ll be right over.
I open her door to find her transiting down from the first floor on her rather funky electric chair lift. She slowly hovers as she descends over the stairs while chatting away at the same time. So perfectly turned out, holding herself as gracefully as a ballroom dance move.
I offer to take her weighty shopping up to the kitchen. No, leave it there, she replies, it gives me something to do. I hate feeling like such a wimp, she says. I tell her she’s the most unwimpishy person I know. We laugh, and discuss if that’s even a word.
How are you, I enquire. We somehow end up talking about death. I know I’m going to die, she says, as nonchalantly as her chairlift descent, but I’ll be darned if I’m going to let this virus take me.
I return to my window and see a gap in the sky. I suddenly want to crawl into it like I did as a child seeking out the smallest possible spaces to hide when I couldn’t quite cope with what was happening around me. Back then, I would take to the wardrobe or the cosiest of cupboards. Now, it seems, I just take to the sky…
Debbie Geraghty is a passionate advocate for creativity and equality. An introduction to her activities is available here.