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My patio faces east. In the early afternoon the sun has embarked on its ancient descent toward the west and I relax on my lawn chair in the shade. I breathe deeply. My lungs are clear. Coronavirus has me contemplating life from a variety of angles.

I am led to believe that those who suffer death from the disease suffocate. That doesn't sound like a pleasant exit to me. As a result of this grim reality, I have quit smoking dope. I don't want to weaken my lungs any more than 55 years of puffing on joints has wreaked on them.

I have been retired for three years from the BISD after the superintendent threatened to fire me if I kept writing. I chose to keep writing. It is my spiritual calling. I had contributed 39 years to the school district and I was working for free. Retirement was a logical option. I don't miss the job, but I do miss my students, athletes and colleagues.

I liken my present existence to floating down a lazy Hill Country river in an inner tube. Little did I know that there might be rapids in the near distance with a waterfall dropping precipitously into a rocky gorge waiting for me around the next bend.

I am not panicking, but there is a paranoia, maybe the size of a Chihuahua, nipping at my heels. At 69 I am at the most risk of dying although the growing number of Coronavirus cases in Cameron County are claiming much younger individuals. I have no fear of death, but I am not ready to have my ashes tossed into the Rio Grande from the New Bridge.

With the exception of not wining and dining at local restaurants and bars as well as hitting the weights at Gold's, my life has changed little. I read, I write, I exercise (I am the creator of Yankee Yoga, which includes an hour workout consisting of push-ups, sit-ups and stretching on a thickly cushioned mat while watching the latest Narco movies and shows on Netflix), I walk and I'm eating and drinking well at home.

After seven years of a solitary existence, I have reconciled with my ex-wife Olivia. Based on the stark reality, it was a fortuitous reunion. I am residing under the same roof with my 15-year-old son Mick, my step-son Lorca and two dogs. It is a full house, but I am adapting. This is the hand that I have been dealt and it's a good hand. With life nothing short of a gamble, I am confident that I am holding the right cards.

I no longer keep track of the days. I check the dates. The last few days didn't seem like a weekend and today doesn't have the feel of a Sunday. Being a Catholic, Sundays were a part of my childhood. We would go to mass as a family. After church we would return home and my dad, now several springs dead after a glorious 87 years, would prepare pancakes, one of many traditions that my parents imparted to their children.

Olivia and I watched television into the early morning hours last night and I didn't rise until ten. The boys sleep into the late afternoon. They play video games until dawn. My two big boys from my second marriage, Dante and Diego, are on their own, but they never part from my heart.

I rose at my regular time. I popped two pills for minor health threats and commenced preparing breakfast while I listened to famous waltzes. Waltzes inspire movement, but they are also tranquilizing.

Besides pancakes, which I prepare by adhering to my father's recipe, I make French toast, which I learned from him. These meals don't require talent, but their simplicity shouldn't belie that they call for a gringo's touch. We honkies do have our own cuisine. Olivia dragged herself out of bed and we ate breakfast together, hot coffee and fresh strawberries accompanying our plates.

In these sad times of Trump and Coronavirus, Olivia and I are sharing a happy relationship. If I should die and somebody asked her about my last days, she might reply, "They may have been our most joyous moments together."