Deliver This

Someone pointed out that the last “normal” day we enjoyed as a nation was a Friday the thirteenth. I don’t doubt it. The irony of it all is just so cosmic.

It didn’t take much to convince me that I should stay home. It takes a bit to convince me to go out. I’ve had Amazon on speed dial for years and years, and I’ve been ready for the apocalypse for a long, long time. Ask my kids, they’ll tell you.

“Why doesn’t YaYa go anywhere?” the grandchildren ask.

“She’s a hermit,” their parents say, “waiting for the apocalypse.”

“Mother, what’s a hermit?” they ask, big eyes blinking.

“ A hermit is almost a troll, but not quite a pooka.” Their mothers tell them, sometimes winking, sometimes smiling.

“Does YaYa live under the troll bridge in the garden next to the zinnias, Mother Dear?”

No one answers that question.

I don’t live under the troll bridge. No matter what anyone says while winking.

That doesn’t mean all has sailed smoothly since the great germ lock-down began. The Amazon delivery man has gone and gotten himself a bit frazzled.

Even in the good times, he brings me about a thousand boxes a week. Please note: I don’t buy a thousand pairs of shoes a week as some might imagine. But do the math, everything in your grocery cart shipped to your front door in a separate box. Yeah. Crazy. A box for dill seed and a box for a box of noodles and a box for vitamins and boxes inside of packages tucked in boxes.

Recently, after delivering yet another gaggle of boxes to my garage, the delivery guy raced back to his van, flung himself behind the steering wheel, and hit the gas. Children scattered out of his way. He hadn’t bothered to shut the sliding, side door of the vehicle. That guy was in some kind of big time hurry, I can tell you. He whipped out of our yard. Packages and boxes flew out of the open door into the yard like a dumpy dinosaur shedding great, honking scales.

Throwing myself into action, I screeched and ran and waved and yelled. The van disappeared in a fog of dust.

“Hey, Mister, your package!” I wailed. Okay, it was one, only one package.

It felt like more. An air fryer meant for some expectant woman in Kissimmee tumbled to a stop at my feet. It’s still in my garage, waiting for me to do the right thing. Sorry, I’ve been busy ordering more boxes from Amazon.

Linda (Deliver This) Zern