The women in our neighborhood of twenty-four houses have a conversation text thread.
I started the thread so that we can communicate easily with each other.
The text thread may be used to ask a question.
It may be used to share information about trash pickup or other important matters.

Now that each women has the thread on her phone, anyone can initiate a conversation.
The most recent question was about Halloween.
No one was sure what our township was doing about Trick or Treating.
No one was sure about the township’s Covid protocol for that night.

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It was always a treat to go shopping with my mother.
A shopping excursion took us to a department store.
Malls were not even thought of yet.
The department store had many levels, which you reached by escalator or elevator.

Many department stores had a restaurant on the top floor.
We would get dressed up and make a day of it.
If we went into the city, we would meet my aunt for lunch as well.
Some women wore hats and gloves; men wore suits.

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It used to be an empty field.
It was the field where hot air balloons would often launch.
It was so lovely to see the open space.
Houses were built along one side, but even they seemed to compliment the bucolic scene.

An old barn and a stone house can be found in an area around the empty field.
Quaint little country shops can be found around the corner.
An historic church is across the street.
This field is in the center of the small town.

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I had to mail a package.
I went to my little country post office.
I always appreciate that long lines are nonexistent.
I am usually in and out very quickly.

This day, a woman was in front of me.
She was carrying a large box that she wanted to mail.
She lifted the box up on the counter.
The plexiglass made placement of the box a bit awkward.

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I was walking in the parking lot.
A woman was coming towards me.
We both had our masks on, so our smiles were not apparent.
We passed each other.

Good morning, she said to me.
Good morning, I answered back.
As I passed her, I thought more about her greeting.
Thank you for saying that under your mask; it made my morning, I told her.

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My daughter-in-love decided to watch a movie.
She and my son and my granddaughter have been with us for the past few days.
She wanted to watch Disney’s, Lion King.
It was a bit of nostalgia with songs that she loves.

They are a musical family.
Their music tastes are wonderfully varied.
I trust my son for music suggestions.
I have many of his playlists saved in my library.

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My daughter and I went to the drive-thru of our favorite coffee shop.
It is ironic for me to go to a drive-thru of a coffee shop, since I have never even tasted coffee.
I have no desire to even try it.
Tea is my drink of choice.

This particular coffee shop is also a bakery.
This particular coffee shop has an ice cream parlor next door.
When I go to the drive-thru with my daughter, I always order the same thing.
I order a strawberry-banana smoothie.

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I saw a friend at the grocery store.
I had not seen her in a while.
I was delighted to see her face.
Though I only saw half of her face, since the other half was beneath a mask.

We talked on one of the aisles.
She was on one side.
I was on the other.
People kept pushing their carts between us as we stood there and talked.

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We were both in the meat department of the little market.
I was standing near him, but not too close.
We both were wearing our masks.
I noticed that his mask was homemade.

He was an older man.
He walked in a shuffling way.
I wondered if his mask was made by his wife.
He shopped alone.

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There are days, when I open my laptop, there is nothing to say.
If there is nothing to say, there is nothing to write about.
If there is nothing to write about, then I could go back and retrieve something from the past.
However, that is the easy way out.

Maybe there really is something to say, but it is hard.
Maybe there is something to write about, but it is prickly and uncomfortable.
Maybe, each of us, feel like we have nothing to say.
Maybe if we tap into that well down deep, we would be surprised what comes out.

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