I.
“Martha?”
“I’m Margaret. My daughter is Martha.”
“Martha went to Nanna when she was little?”
“Oh, yes. How is Nanna?”
“She’s at Garden View. She’s with it some days and not on others, but she remembers all her babies.”
I put my hand on my heart. “I wish I could visit her, but…”
“You’re a religious person, aren’t you?” asks G. “I think this virus is like the 40 days Jesus spent in the desert. He’s telling us something.”
I tear up. “That makes me want to cry.” I move my cart farther down the aisle and fight off the tears my body wants to shed.
II.
At the garden store, I talk with the clerk who has children at our school. He says, “I just wish they hadn’t closed the schools.”
I respond, “I understand that kids don’t get it but are prime carriers. They had to close them.”
“But my son is special ed, and he can’t read. I can’t give him the help he needs.”
I preach my teacher-talk, “Just read to him. Read with him. Read.”
“That’s just it. I can’t read. I have dyslexia.”
Hand back on my heart.
Reflections on the Teche 