27 April 2020. The 18
I don't now why this should be so exciting--clearly a result of my long apprenticeship as a bus rider--to no avail, I'm afraid. Or rather, not right now. It seemed to be working so perfectly--a ride from Solano to downtown, over to the Y for a swim, and then the ride back, drawing both ways--the chance encounters, renewed acquaintanceships. By implication, of course--having drawn the same riders sometimes more than once. So that when I see the woman with the square-box pull cart, fine features set in a leathery face, with one shock of blond-gray hair poking up from the side of her cap--it's as if I've met an old friend, but now she's trudging up an empty Solano in the dusk. Her home perhaps more than I realized.
As
when last night, C read me a new paragraph from Isak Dinesen--a parable
of sorts. Christ returned to earth, in a noisy gathering with his
disciples--he turns to Peter and suggests they step outside, maybe a
walk. But to where, Peter asks.We'll start at the Praetorium, then up
that hill to Cavalry...
_____
Only
here it's the frozen yogurt shop, now barely re-opened. Still only a
very few people--they wait outside while the father steps up to the
doorway to order, sitting later as a family, masks pulled down for the
moment, lost in the contemplation of each spoonful...
Would this be a variety of religious experience? English spiritualists on the bluffs of the Pacific...?
Or simply an evening in Albany, in late April, heightened by the empty street...
Or simply an evening in Albany, in late April, heightened by the empty street...
