Captain Mom’s Log: Week 4: Day 22

Walking up and down the aisles of a barren grocery store, I feel disconnected. From what, I can’t quite remember. I push the cart down one row, up the next. They all look the same. The Easter bunnies stare at me. Their adorable eyes mock and tease. Goofy teeth are garish in the fluorescent lighting. I want to squeeze them and bring them home. But I know better. I see dozens of untouched packages of dye for eggs that don’t exist. Seasonal items seem like bric-a-brac these days.

Suddenly the aisle begins to shrink. The lighting dims and the grocery store is now a hardware store. Shelves of nails and the pungent and unnatural smell of fertilized soil in a bag. Lo and behold what do I see? A single roll of toilet paper staring at me. It is neatly wrapped in paper. The kind you begrudgingly put on the dispenser while using the restaurant bathroom because no one else will. Suddenly a second roll has appeared on the shelf. I tear up and gently place the two in my cart as if they might disappear at any moment. I pick one up again slowly and hug it. Melting my arms and hands into a thing of splendor.

I walk down another row of tacky outdoor furniture. The kind you see at CVS and buy anyway because how can you pass up $15 chairs marked down to $10? A roll of paper towels. Also individually wrapped, but in plastic. I show Co-Captain what I’ve found. He’s in the produce section, which has materialized again. “All right!” he sounds slightly Californian.

The mists enter and the scene fades as Oliver mushes onto my face and I realize I’ve just had my first pandemic dream. Oh, all right. I decide not to remove the cat. Just this once.

END TRANSMISSION

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