It was a cold March night when I read the email. Rain dripped down the kitchen window as a light mist hung in the air outside. I skimmed it three times to make sure I understood. It couldn't be true. It's unfair, I find myself thinking. There's so much more I wanted to do at Kenyon; travel all of BFEC, get together with friends, and talk with my professors. I wanted to savor these last few months of my time as an undergraduate. Now it's all been cut short.
I distract myself to keep my mind off a world that is coming undone. I cook, clean, bake, and watch Netflix. As I take a loaf of walnut banana bread out of the oven, I think about my grandmother. Banana bread is her favorite, but I can't give this one to her. It's too risky. I haven't seen her since her birthday.
I gifted her with a bottle of honey from the Kenyon bookstore. It was a small gift, but she returned my gift with a warm hug nonetheless. She said it reminds her of the honey she often had as a child in rural Mississippi. It was like home: warm, sweet, and floral.
It will be a while before I can see her in person again. I try to call her every couple of days to make sure she's not ill or lonely. I try not to think of the worst case scenario.
My mother came home from working at a nearby grocery store. The store had to throw away an entire display of zucchini because a customer had coughed on them. Intentionally.
A number of employees from the same grocery chain have fallen ill.
The mayor of my town tested positive for coronavirus earlier this week. I live down the street from city hall.
It seemed so far away a few months ago but now this sickness is on my doorstep. The fog outside has thickened considerably, looking more like miasma.
In Medieval times it was believed that the Bubonic plague was caused by breathing in noxious air. This archaic theory seems strangely befitting. While it has been disproven, it gets at a nuance in the spread of this virus. Coronavirus is mostly transmitted as droplets, but there’s evidence that it can also be in aerosols.. This virus is like a thick fog that has been slowly creeping across the planet, threatening to fill our lungs and swallow us whole. I try not to think of the worst case scenario.
Then came more news. Hospitals are filled to capacity, and feverish bodies lay strewn across the floor. Doctors, nurses, and EMTs whose bloodshot eyes and deep impressions from their protective gear betray how exhausted they must be. Experts say it will only get worse. Millions infected and hundreds of thousands are projected to die.
There’s no room, no air to breathe, and we are choking.
The cold grey mornings of my northern Illinois suburb are turning into slightly warmer grey days. The parks and streets are completely empty. I no longer hear the playful screeches of the neighborhood children. Everything is still and silent.