I look both ways, left, and then right, and left again, checking to see if I could find a gap in the traffic across the four lanes of Evans Avenue. My helmet was looped over the left handle bar, held in place by my left hand gripping the handle, my right hand holding the back handle of the scooter, behind the saddle. That’s right, I was not astride the scooter, but rather next to it, crossing Evans on foot.

I wish I had more to bring you than a post a month. Or even every 45 days, but things aren’t happening to me the same way these days then when my dad was dying. Back then, time mattered. Then, weeks were significant chunks of time, days mattered. Between COVID-19 and the loss of my dad, time moves by differently.