By the time this posts, I will hopefully be in my car headed to panhandle Nebraska to bring in my Shabbat. Like many weeks of COVID-19, this has been a strange one. Wyoming is opening back up and if it continues to go well over the next week, I will have my first presentation since the outbreak scheduled to be on the 18th with the Fort Caspar Chapter of Wyoming D.A.R.
In the meantime, I am loading up my car and headed to the lakehouse where my Grandma Betty and Grandpa Wally lived. As I drive out to the lake, I will look over at the cemetery road leading behind the hills where they both now are–my Grandpa Wally was particular about choosing higher ground. My parents are already at the lake and my sister, brother-in-law, and their puppy will join for Mother’s Day from Colorado.
Each day we will drive into town to stare at my Grandpa Keith through a window at the nursing home, passing notes and making faces. He lives in the Sandhills but a fall and a hip injury landed him in the equivalent of a human zoo and he plays the part of an inmate trying to bribe my dad to break him free.
I don’t know how but I hope I can make him laugh or at the very least feel heard. We all deserve to feel like someone understands us.