Home, sweet home?

The pandemic outbreak of coronavirus, raging like a wildfire in the states, forcibly shut down schools, stores, and offices. Entering the second week of working from home, I started to miss the days in office, where I am single-minded and have more time to myself. The almost routine 20+ minutes noon nap in the car is a luxury now, though a comfy bed is right next to me.  With three mouths to feed, my lunch hour is busily spent in the kitchen. 

It's Friday morning. The temperature outside is in its 60s. Getting up and having curtains drawn to the sides, I saw the sunlight casting through the rectangular window some patterns on the carpet, squared sun with shawdows of leafy willows dancing upon it.  I sat with my back to the desk, a hiatus as the laptop is running the data. The room without heating, which is not recommended at the time of coronovirus, is cold. I drank some hot water, put on socks, but my toes still felt icy. As the hour ticked by, the sunny patterns on the floor changed, with and without leafy silhouette.  The squared sunlight then got brighter and warmer,  inviting me to place my feet in it.
  
It is a quiet morning, as I enjoy the reading of Maugham's Of Human Bondage on the Ipad. Without the muffled phone conversation from the next door (he is at meeting again), I would have thought it a weekend morning. The sun now shines shiningly on the leaves outside the window. The long hanging willow-like branches are dotted with pink bell-shaped flowers. I revel in the moment I spare for myself, knowing that soon I have to plunge back to work.

The other room across the aisle did not have any sound. She must be still in bed.

The "social distancing"  is a buzz word now with rampant coronavirus infection numbers. While 6 feet is assumed to be safe, shall we also keep a distance in the family? If so, how many feet? "A bowl of soup", as people once suggested?

I learned not to wake her up, to give her enough space and freedom. Her coming home this time is not voluntary, and her slight antagonism puts me on a cautionary note. For the first few days, I was seized with a pang of remorse and anguish. I am no longer confident that I did the right thing to have her cancel the trip. As Maugham puts in his novel that " one profits more by the mistakes one makes off one’s own bat than by doing the right thing on somebody’s else advice. “

But is my advice considered as right? 

She is a fully fledging bird, young she is in our eyes, her wings strong enough to steer her on her course. The new resting place, adrifting and away from home,  has its appealing. And distance breeds differences, giving rise to the ultimate gap.  Perhaps, she no longer feels at home in the place she once called home,  scupulous we are to tend to her need.

The bond that ties us together for more than 20 years is not as strong as we thought. It is not cemented like concrete, but fragile and breakable.  

Every day, I cook the best meals as I can, and then serve the plates outside the door for her to pick up, now that she is quarantined.  The communication between us is very limited. But the meal must have done its job arousing in her the flavor of home, old sweet home in her memory,  drawing her back nearer to me.  As days go by, the grudge or bitterness, if any, melts away, like an ice in the water, like the sun penetrating the window, like a shell softening in the vinegar.

The night before, she offered to go grocery shopping with me, eager to cook her dish for us. With the masks on, we went to a Korean supermarket before it closes at eight. Back home, he came downstairs to help carry food and vegetables from the car. With a joke, we all laughed behind the masks, her eyes above the covered face beaming in the dim streetlight.