I miss ordinary things

God, I miss ordinary things.

It’s raining this afternoon.

There is lightening that flashes green and purple and metallic, thunder that growls and claps and demands attention.

I think I can tell the difference between the missile interceptions, the warplanes, and thunder.

It’s hard to describe; maybe thunder is more crackling, more robust, more familiar.

The light is blue from my window, the rain is tapping on the windows, on the roof, slipping into the house through the glass doors…

And I realize that I miss this feeling.

My heart is caught in my throat, and my eyes tear up, and I let the exhaustion wash over me.

Because I miss ordinary things.

The noises I can depend on.

An uninterrupted day.

The quiet of chopping vegetables for a soup on a crappy day like this one.

The birds calling out to their mates in the rain, trying to make their way home.

A dedicated hour of peacefulness.

Of quiet if I want it.

Of blasting music while I wash the dishes or an easy walk down the block without my phone to alert me that I’m in danger.

I miss not tracking m my kids every second.

I miss making a plan and keeping it.

I miss not having to teach on zoom, and praying I won’t have to run to the shelter in the middle.

I miss uninterrupted sleep.

I miss feeling relaxed.

I miss living in peace.

It’s funny how so much still exists:

The light.

The rain.

The world continuing on.

But it doesn’t feel the same.

Is there such a thing as ordinary life when you’re living in an extraordinary time?