April 2.  Not only are we in the middle of a pandemic, Max and I are getting ready to move from the home where we have lived for 30 years.  In a normal time, that would be a daunting task: do you have any idea how much stuff accumulates in a large house in 30 years' time?  A lot.  But now, when the world has slowed and we haven't, it seems as if the job will not get done.

And yet it must.

Where we are today:  The governors of some southern states, Florida included, have finally issued some semi-stay-at-home orders.  I fear that Florida's edict is too late to do as much good as it could, but at least it's something.  The governor made his order only after talking with President Trump.  I think he didn't want to upset the President, but he was getting a lot of heat from other government officials to shut down the state.  On another front, while states such as Kentucky and Oklahoma are getting the hospital supplies they need, Michigan and a couple other states are not.  The President has said that governors of states that ask the Federal government for help should show appreciation.  Apparently, the governor of Michigan, a woman (imagine that), isn't being appreciative enough to get what her people need.  This is beyond comprehension.  Lives are at stake and are being chosen based on a narcissist's whims.  And so far, almost 5,000 Americans have died, many of them without anyone at their sides - the virus.  Unimaginable.

And then, my friend Terry lost his wife this week - not to the virus, but to a horrible disease called pulmonary hypertension.  We had hoped that her double lung transplant would save her, alas, to no avail. And I don't know whether the virus kept Terry from her as she slipped away  So the week goes and brings more sadness.

Beating out my general anger over things such as "appreciation" is a deepening sense of despair.  I'm not afraid.  I'm not feeling claustrophobic.  I'm feeling as if nothing will ever be the same.  Not only is the world changing around me and so many others, but my world is changing, too.  We are leaving the home where innumerable people have come, dined, drunk wine, sat around the fire, and generally enjoyed just being.  In a few weeks, that will all change, and I have come to realize how much a part of my life that is.  I will still be able to play the piano, although I do not play as well as I used to, I will still be able to laugh at funny movies, and I will still love Cary Grant in anything.  But the part of my life that centers around feeding people with food and togetherness will go on hiatus.

Perhaps someday, we will be able to go outside again without masks, without the threat of a virus that kills people, and perhaps someday, I will again try to feed people's souls.