In this photograph, my older sister, who is married and lives just a few blocks away, watches my mother and I eat breakfast through our deck window. Unfortunately, due to the precautions of the coronavirus, this was as close as she could get to us. The first thing that pops into my mind is one of the many great poems by nineteenth-century French poet, Charles Baudelaire. In his poem “Windows,” he explains that one cannot compare someone looking through a window to the outside world to the amazing experience of looking from the outside at a closed window. “There is nothing deeper, more mysterious, more fruitful, more shadowy, or more dazzling,” he writes. While my sister gets a small glimpse of our kitchen scene, she cannot help but feel separated from what is inside. The pain is evident in her eyes as she is barred from her childhood home. Never before has she longed so much for a mundane Sunday breakfast, or the “opportunity” to take out that overflowing garbage. It is like the empty chair next to my mother is calling her name. And while this may just be a temporary restriction, it hurts nonetheless for her not to be able to join us.