The Other Side of the Doorway

I look at the bouquet of flowers on our dining room sideboard that I bought during my last grocery store trip last Friday. Just something to brighten things up during our two-week quarantine. I feel like I bought them in another lifetime. It was the same when, yesterday, I pulled a receipt out of my pocket from eating lunch out with Mister P last week after shopping at Costco. Or when I look at the shirt I bought there a little more than a week ago, when closing school seemed like a vague possibility, but not something that I really expected to happen; at least, not so soon. These things are like relics from "before," and I wonder when everything will be from "now."

I have a vivid memory of, a few days after Miss A was born, standing in our kitchen, overwhelmed and delirious with exhaustion. I had the distinct feeling of having walked through a doorway that I could look, but not pass, back through. I saw an enormously-pregnant, but relatively well-groomed woman using her brain at work, casually shopping, laughing with adults, cooking, and chatting with her husband after dinner. I missed being her so much, I cried. I wanted to go back through the door, but here I was. I could only look.

I feel like we all have passed through another doorway. I'm not sure what this new dimension holds, yet. It seems so unsteady. I didn't know then, either, but I know now that that moment was the lowest, or close to it. I guess my fear is that we are not there, yet, or even close to it.