Four Tee Shirts

Eliza Thomas

Word Count 805

This is just a test. This is not something awful, like a bucket list. And I'm not going to a desert island so I don't have to answer and then heed my answers to all those revealing questions about what to bring. I don't have to decide which song which flavor which bird which painting which delightful smell which memory which color which composer which person. I don't have to answer any questions about which animal. I'm not Noah's Ark. And anyway, I'm taking Mario, my dog. This isn't the end of the world. Things could be a lot worse.

In fact, things are a lot worse. Covid is spiking again and people are dying and the world is on fire and the icecap is melting and soon the bits of the world that aren't on fire will be underwater, and there is no end in sight.

Oh. Hello, cold dark clinging despair.

I'm upstairs staring at the walls in my chilly bedroom. Time to get away. Time to pack up. Four tee shirts should be plenty, and five pairs of underpants. I won't be staying that long. Still, should I go online and shop for clothes that wash and dry quickly? No. That would mean reading a zillion contradictory reviews, too big, too small, too short, too long, and then waiting for the mail and then experiencing crushing disappointment when packages arrive and nothing fits. I hunt through my closet for a skirt, not too short, not too long, preferably with pockets. A couple of sweaters, though anywhere I'm headed will hopefully be warmer than where I am now. A book. Nothing too grisly, and nothing I have read too recently. I scan the shelf and find an old copy of "One Hundred Years of Solitude." Perfect. Maybe I'll actually get through to the end this time, with all this time on my hands. Though I already know the last line by heart, "... races condemned to one hundred years of solitude did not have a second opportunity on earth."

Good grief. Socks. I'll need socks.

I dig out the backpack I bought last year, still dreaming of a walking tour somewhere far, far away, like the Lake District or the Camino de Santiago, somewhere with winding cobbled streets and windswept mountain paths. I realize the trip might be considered an item on a dreaded bucket list. Perish the thought. Bucket lists are about time running out, and I'm only 72, a least for a few more months, and I avoid crowds and always wear a mask, and in the pre-pandemic days I used to swim a mile at the pool, almost a mile anyway, two and sometimes even three times a week. Which reminds me. I throw in a bathing suit, in case there is someplace to swim. Surely the Lake District will have some lakes, and I imagine there might be rivers somewhere near the Camino de Santiago, though I'll have to check a map. A map! I need a map! And I almost forgot pajamas. I throw those in too, along with other items I've just remembered. A Toothbrush. Blue jeans. Hiking boots, recently purchased to go with the backpack. Sandals, in case hiking boots turn out to be uncomfortable.

The bag is heavy, but manageable. I hoist it on my back with only a little difficulty. Mario whines uneasily. Where are we going? I carry the pack down the stairs. Not too bad. Mario follows me down, and then we go up again, just for practice, to get in shape. And then down again, and then around and around, marching through the hall, through the piano room and into the kitchen, where I grab some cookies and dog biscuits, and through the tiny dining room and into the living room. Mario is spinning in circles, barking with excitement. Then again, hall piano room kitchen tiny dining room living room hall piano room. Ah! Me and my backpack and my dog, off to see the world!

Back to the living room. Outside is my least favorite weather, "mixed winter precipitation," soggy and cold, but the pellet stove is blazing away in the corner. Mario and I plop ourselves down on the couch. He eats all the biscuits, I eat one cookie. He takes a nap, I do not. Nor do I unpack. If I turn on the radio I might hear that the sky has fallen again, so I don't do that either. Who knows? Things might be worse.

This is not a test. This is just another afternoon. My backpack is on one side, my dog is on the other. Mario is lost in his own dream, feet and tail twitching as he races the wind.

I sit completely still. I listen to his breaths, in and out, in and out.

Eliza is a piano teacher and accompanist. In a former life she published a short memoir, “The Road Home" and a children’s picture book, “The Red Blanket”. That was ages ago however. She lives in Montpelier, Vermont with her dog Mario and recent puppy Olivia.