3/28/20

By Josh Rubin

I am perched on the eighth floor of a building in Brooklyn in an apartment with Melissa. We have not left for several days. We have a terrace, so we can go out and feel the sun and wind, and watch the reduced traffic, automobile and pedestrian, below. When watching together, we sigh and scold to each other about those that do not observe social distancing. That’s not six feet, one of us remarks to the other. We stand together, touching.

Inside, there is the TV, and I watch news until I feel my breath get shallow and rapid. I cycle through symptoms, a cough here, a sniffle or sneeze, and wonder if the plague has reached me. When I hear Melissa cough, I insist she stop, no coughing, and she agrees to stop. We have been married for 38 years, together for a few years longer than that. We know that one of us will bury the other. I insist she bury me, because I don’t want to be alone.

Birds come by. A kestrel gets the most attention, its markings dramatically sharpening its clear black eyes, its beak deadly serious. I think it is mating season, and that reminds me of my son Greg, now ensconced with his girlfriend and her roommate, not far from here. They form a Coronavirus cohort. He teaches kindergarten over the internet now, and we have phone calls most days to report, no not yet. You?

I have always felt nearly powerless to help the children at detention camps, and the pilgrims come to the border. But somehow getting closer to them, to see their faces, to call out, to speak with them, gave me a way to channel my distress. I am far away now, the call to be with my family in this apocalypse stronger than the other call. Sometimes I find thoughts that comfort me, but they do not last long. There are few honest scenarios that offer comfort.

Soon, but not soon enough, we will wander over the devastation, those of us who survive, and we will order our thoughts once again, and we will do what our hearts insist on. And we will witness what our eyes must see.