Reconnecting

 I bought a cassette tape at a yard sale about five years after I got rid of the last device I owned that could play one. 

An impulse, borne of the promise of an author and activist I adored, reading to me from her work as I carried on with the more mundane moments of my day. Driving from here to there and back again, waiting around, during the interstitial moments of life. 

Somehow, in the excitement, I had forgotten all about the technological advances to which I'd already adapted. It took only three cars to go from cassette to CD to some wavy blue lines that work like magic.

And here we are.

I still have the tape sitting in a bin by the side of my bed where so many good books go to be read but, through no fault of their own, face only neglect and a thin layer of dust.

A reminder of little heartbreaks that await beneath unexpected excitements that at first delight. It's not the worst thing that could happen.

Just as things slowly returning to normal may not be the best thing.

How are we to know?

Idling in the drop-off line at school while we await our turn. A staff member, clad in a face shield and mask, will aim a temperature gun at my passenger's forehead and let us know what kind of day we'll be having. 

A smile and a "have a great day," prompt my boy to shift his weight in the seat and groan, as if the transition from car to the classroom wasn't even anticipated let alone expected. He lumbers out of the car and rifles through the backseat to collect his things: a trumpet case, a backpack, a binder that won't fit inside.

I can't tell from his expression how he feels I can only intuit from the calm of his demeanor that he is content to move along through the day as expected. 

 Not that I know what is expected.

I have stopped aligning his schedule with the steps of my day. I have no idea if his math class corresponds to my 10:30 mail run or whether he has English or Health when I go on my "rounds. "And though I receive reports of the occasional missing assignment, I have stopped breathing down his neck while looking over his shoulder.

I barely remember to pick him up on Mondays, which has recently been added to my to-do list. His sister’s review class after school has kept her from toting him to and fro through May.

Usually, I meet him as he’s already walked a half-mile from campus, still wearing his mask as he juggles an armload of things.

Neither of us seemed to be able to plan ahead.

"What's Ruth's phone number?" He asks me. 

I stare at him in the fog of disassociation. "Ruth?"

"The town historian? You know her, right?"

"I've met her. We've spoken. But I don't really know her."

"Well, I'm supposed to call her TONIGHT and do an interview for school."

 I don't say what I am thinking: those things we are supposed to feel about planning, and common sense, and the unbearable disappointment of one's own shortcomings leading to natural consequences. 

I just send off an email with our phone number and the hope that she's online and willing to speak to a 13-year-old boy at 8 o'clock on a Tuesday night. 

In a few minutes, the phone rings and the boy picks up. 

"Thank you for calling."

The call doesn't take long. I see him in a half-hour's time as he rummages through the kitchen, looking for a snack.

I asked him how it went.

"Did you know she didn't go to school for history? She got an English degree and started doing historical work when she moved here and discovered that Dutch influence seemed to be largely overlooked in the stories of the founding of the country."

In the time it took him to toast and butter bread, he had conveyed the bulk of his 20-minute inquiry about careers. In between bites, I could sense the satisfaction.

"Sometimes not having a plan becomes the plan."