Throughout the past year, my husband, Peter, and I have been seeing no one except Peter’s sister, Lori, and her husband.

Lori has Stage 4 cancer and has had a tough fight. She’s been on oxygen all this time. The decision of how careful we needed to be was easy. If we were going to see Lori, we had to be extremely careful. And as a reward, once a week we have heard Lori’s laughter.

I’ve been writing fiction for the first time in my life. No one told me in advance that writing novels is a lonely process. Especially now, there are no writers’ groups, no coffee shops to write in -- although I wasn’t part of a writers’ group before, and I’ve always thought a coffee shop was a noisy place to write.

Instead, I sit alone at my desk with my coffee cup and a vase of fresh flowers in front of me and I write. I write and I wait for the end of the week when we will see Lori.

“Where did we leave off?” Lori will always ask, sounding excited, followed by, “I might need a reminder,” followed by, “I get two chapters this week, don’t I?”

I will read in a mask (something I thought would be harder than it is), and I will listen for the sound of Lori’s laughter, which is loud and frequent.

And many days -- most days, in fact -- that is enough reason to write.

Because it’s impossible to never have a doubt when you are working on something like this. I wonder if it’s any good or if anyone will find it interesting or if I have any idea what I am doing. But then I read another chapter to Lori, and I remember why I’m writing to begin with. I’m writing to tell a story, to entertain, to amuse, maybe even (every so often) to make a small point.

I haven’t seen Lori in four weeks now.

She’s been too ill for visitors. Her pain is higher, and her oxygen is lower, and we don’t really know what is happening because she is too tired to tell us. Peter keeps bringing her food and I keep writing, but I cannot tell you how much I miss Lori’s laughter.

I did not realize how much I have relied on Lori’s laughter through all these weeks and months. I did not realize how seeing her every week has anchored my life to something real and joyful and positive -- because that is what Lori is.

Today the sun is not shining, and a cold wind is blowing, and we have not heard from Lori and I don’t know if we will.

“Maybe we’ll see her this weekend,” Peter says. “Maybe she’ll feel better by the end of the week.”

But we don’t know. No one knows.

There are no platitudes about Stage 4 cancer that will make things fine. Things are not fine, and that is how it is. We don’t know what the future will hold. She has battled back before, and we are hoping she will again.

But we don’t know.

Peter cooks and worries. I write. Lori is now far behind in the story. I am trying to remember what I last read to her.

But every time I come to a part where a deliciously unpleasant person is behaving especially badly, I imagine how Lori would laugh, if I were reading to her, if I finally get the chance to read to her again.

“Oh!” I think to myself. “Lori will love this.”

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

It’s our anniversary, and Peter and I will be celebrating, like everyone has this past year, the best we are able.

We have not yet won the vaccine lottery. I recently received a note from the health department that basically said, “Don’t get your hopes up.” Newspaper columnists are not, apparently, considered essential workers and, of course, I am not. Meanwhile, we continue to visit my sister-in-law, Lori, whose health remains precarious.

So our anniversary celebration this year will not be spent going to a restaurant or a hot spring or a hotel in town. Instead, we are having cheese fondue on the patio.

Facebook (which knows everything) knew it was our anniversary and made a video of Peter and me. Since we rarely take pictures at home, all the pictures were taken somewhere far away. It was surprising, being reminded of all the places we have been, all the occasions we have celebrated in the last six years.

My closet is filled with dresses and skirts that have not seen the light of day for a year. They look like artifacts from another era. I won’t be wearing a dress today either. But we are having cheese fondue.

The sun is out, but it is still March, so we’ll dress warm. Peter will heat up the cheese in a little electric pot. And for dessert, we’ll have pumpkin cake with his mother’s burnt butter frosting. I think it will be a memorable anniversary -- and memories are tricky things, in my experience.

Sometimes I feel as if I’ve forgotten nearly everything I’ve ever done. I am so caught up in the present moment and the present day. Even 10 years ago seems like another lifetime. In many ways, it is.

I realize I am becoming more and more like my grandmother.

One evening, toward the end of her life, I watched her listen to a long-winded story her brother told about the perfect baked potato. My Great-Uncle John was looking at the potato he had just been served and reminiscing about what a good potato should look like, how they used to make them in a Chicago restaurant, decades ago.

I could see my grandmother’s growing impatience with this story about long-ago potatoes, and finally she burst out, “John! That potato is 50 years old!”

My grandmother lived a long time, and I believe she enjoyed most of it, in large part because she didn’t spend much time on old potatoes.

Life changes and people move on, and that’s not a bad thing. Living in the past doesn’t make the best use of my brain or my limited time on earth. In general, I’m satisfied with the few scattered and fragmented memories I’ve hung onto.

But this past year will be one I will remember.

There will be all the years that happened before, and there will be this year. We will remember this anniversary for being the one we didn’t go out (at least, not farther than the patio). It’s been the year of small celebrations. It’s been the year of cheese fondue.

Sometime later this year, I will wear a fancy dress somewhere. I will put on shoes with heels, and I’m sure it will feel odd, having lived in the equivalent of pajamas all year. We’ll go out, and we’ll see people and eat in a restaurant. We have all that to look forward to.

But today we are having cheese fondue.

And I’ll remember this anniversary better than most because it was different. And because we celebrated the best we were able.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

I’ve never been a fan of March.

March is supposedly spring, but we all know it’s not. In much of the country, more snow falls in March than any other month. But it doesn’t have the courtesy to stay. March snow falls, makes us shovel it, then turns into a sloppy mess in three days. It becomes slush, mixed with mud. The sky stays gray. And all the ... things (you know what I mean), things that were buried in previous snowfalls ... all those things come to light. Whatever they were, they are never better for having spent a few months under the snow. I don’t need to describe them. You know what I’m talking about.

March is filled with disappointment. Too early for things to bloom, too late for a frosty day, March is a party that is never going to happen, an event canceled in advance. I am an optimistic person by nature, but March always gets me down.

It seems nonsensical, but autumn is a more cheerful season. Things are dying, but they do it so colorfully! The air is crisp, and there will be celebrations and bonfires and new sweaters to wear.

What do you wear in March? Something you don’t mind getting muddy, that is my advice. You might as well wear those pants you plan on tossing out as soon as it is warm enough. Wear them with the boots that already have a hole in the toe. Your feet will get wet anyway. There is nothing you can do. It’s March.

I realize this is not turning into an uplifting column. I do not feel inspired by March; it is true.

But maybe that is because March is when big changes start to happen, and big changes are often not pretty.

Starting a new habit, ending a bad one, getting rid of something that is not working and replacing it with something that works better -- none of these things are pretty. Change is messy and fraught with mistakes, and it doesn’t look or feel easy or glamorous. June is easy and glamorous. March is clumsy and embarrassing and lonely and dull.

Maybe that’s why we need it.

Because change is necessary. The trees need it, and insects need it, and people need it most of all. We need to slough off the old stuff that isn’t doing us any good anymore, and we need to awkwardly embrace the new stuff we want to become a part of our life. And we can’t do that without some mud and some melting and some unpleasant discoveries under the snow.

I was thinking about butterflies recently, how they start out as caterpillars and emerge with brand-new, beautiful wet wings. Then they take off and fly to another continent like they know exactly what they are doing -- because they do. I admire everything about that. I admire their beauty, and assurance, and their ability to transform themselves.

But my sister-in-law, Lori, recently reminded me of something that I either didn’t know or had forgotten.

“When they are in the chrysalis, they dissolve,” she told me. “Their entire body turns to mush! If you open the chrysalis too soon, they never get wings.”

I realized I’ve been admiring butterflies for all the wrong reasons.

I’ve been admiring those beautiful wings after all the work is finished. I never stopped to think how it would feel to be mush inside a dark cocoon, making a change that will transform a worm into a magical creature.

Now I’m thinking, maybe that is what March is for.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION