The Cinnamon Roll Year

Death, birth, and refined carbohydrates.

I am surrounded by a dead woman’s things. She died in her eighties, a retired teacher beloved by many. I rent her furnished place. It is over twice the size of the one-bedroom apartment for which I paid a little bit more back in Los Angeles. I lived in that city for eight years, and now I live here.

I have been told so many times that the original owner did not expire in this house that I am almost certain she did. I am surrounded by her eclectic collection of framed paintings and prints, so I know that she loved art. Her relatives tell me she traveled with a pack of friends — “the girls” — and had a vibrant social life in her elder years. She sounds pretty great, and I quite admire her taste in furniture.

She passed away a month before the first case of COVID-19 was recorded in the United States. I am glad she got out while the getting was good.

Nobody lived here for months. Then, in October of 2020, I put my things in storage in California and moved here to be closer to my family. A lot of Americans have been doing things like that, in our plague year.

I am sitting on her plaid-upholstered couch right now. It matches the easy chair. The carpet is probably thirty years old, and I need to vacuum it more often. I will probably stay for a…