A short story written by Rosemary Harper
“Hey, Cass?” Mom called from the kitchen. “You ready to go?”
I was in the family room, struggling with the laces to my Adidas tennis shoes. “Yeah, coming.” I found her next to the calendar that was pinned on the wall. She was armed with a red Sharpie, marking something out.
“What are you doing?” I asked, only half paying attention as I glanced quickly from the calendar down to my phone. Then my brain processed what I had just seen, and I looked back up again.
The little box that represented Thursday, November 23 now had “Family Thanksgiving Dinner”- with a thick, dark line going through it.
That familiar feeling started to sink in. The disappointment mixed with frustration that I had felt 20 million times in the year 2020. That feeling was definitely not a new sensation by this point but still hit hard every time.
Thanksgiving was my favorite holiday. It meant knives cutting into turkey, steam rising from casseroles, and uncles dumping oversized slices of cake onto everyone’s plates. It meant my aunts’ warm sweaters, everyone rattling off one thing they were grateful for, and an NFL game playing in the background. It meant football in the front yard with all of my cousins, yelling “that’s a foul!”, and being way too dramatic in our touchdown celebrations.
I heard my mom say, “Grandma just called to cancel it, Cass. That’s too many people for Grandpa to be around.”
I knew she was right. I wanted to protect him, too. But that didn’t make it any less disappointing. Since March, every time something had changed, I had this desire well up inside of me to vent, and to blame someone.
But that was the thing about 2020- there was no one to blame.
I made my way through the house, and every room I encountered screamed change, change, change. The stacked boxes full of pictures and paperwork from my dad’s old job...that had run out of money because of COVID. He had found a new one, but it was totally different. The computers set up for Zoom sessions, proof that I spent about as much time on Zoom as I did sleeping. My brother’s car out the window, a reminder that he was not living in his dorm for the first time in three years because his college had gone virtual.
I slid into my mom’s SUV and grabbed a mask from the vast assortment that was hanging from her mirror. There were at least two in every color, size, and type. If I never had to see another mask in my entire life, I would be perfectly ok with that.
“You excited?” Mom asked me. When I didn’t respond, she said, really sarcastically, “I’m sure you’re smiling under the mask.”
“Any other year I would be, Mom, any other year I would be,” I told her.
Theater was my safe place. Yeah, I know, dancing in circles and singing in a high, overly loud voice, while lights are shining right into your eyeballs and 300 people are watching you isn’t most people’s idea of “safe”. But it’s mine.
But, you know. Corona. We have to wear masks and stand 6,000 feet away from each other and only do the scenes in pieces because we can’t overcrowd the stage. And the Dunkin’ provided backstage at every rehearsal-- which, let’s just be real, is the only reason why anyone even comes-- isn’t there any more because we can’t touch each other’s food.
“Cass, you are being way too negative,” my mom told me.
“I don’t like change,” I responded.
“Not everything has changed,” she insisted. I tried to hide my smile. She laughed a little. “Ok, you know what? You have to find 5 things that are still the same before you leave this car. Go.”
I laughed a little, and sat up in my seat, ready to prove to her that this was an impossible task.
Let’s just say that five minutes later, I was staring at a McDonald’s burger covered in ketchup and realizing that my mom was so right. Not everything had changed. I looked up at her.
“McDonald’s still got my order wrong.”
“See!” my mom yelled, a fry stuck in her mouth. “Consistency!”
I smiled a little as she pulled out into the highway. Right across the street was a large house, built a long time ago. It was decked out in blinking Christmas lights. The yard was covered in reindeer, snowmen, Santa Clauses, five manger scenes, and twenty inflatables that all sang different Christmas songs.
That guy was still an overachiever. And I still loved it.
I pointed. “He still put his decorations out.”
Mom pulled onto a road lined with houses. A garbage truck that was backing up was beeping loud enough to hurt our eardrums.
“Trash still runs like normal,” I shouted.
We were now two minutes from the theater, and I was trying to think of something else I could list. A couple bumper stickers on the car in front of us reminded me of another constant.
“The Braves are still amazing and the Falcons are still horrible,” I told her.
Mom parked right in front of the auditorium. The chorus of twenty singing voices spilled out of the doors to the lobby. It got quiet for a moment, then a single, strong voice rang out.
“And number five,” I turned to my mom. “Veronica can still crush a high-note. Even with a mask on.”
Mom gave me a high-five and started to get out of the car.
“One more thing-- the leaves are changing color.” There was a huge tree outside her window that was shedding flaming orange, vibrant red, and warm yellow leaves to form a blanket below it.
“But that’s something that’s changed, not stayed the same.”
A thought rang through my head: Some changes are constant. Because, really, change itself is a constant. Things are always changing. COVID or no COVID. 2020 or no 2020.
Jess burst out of the front doors and ran toward me.
She was still my favorite person. And the music leaking from the stage into the parking lot was still my favorite noise. And the stage was still my favorite place to be.
And the Dunkin’ she pulled out of her bag and gave to me was still my favorite food.
So, it might sound cheesy, but everything had changed. But really nothing had.
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