Here we go, our eleventh week. My eleventh week in the epicenter of the ‘rona. Oh, ‘rona. You have my mother, my eighty year-old mother living in Florida, bouncing off the walls. Synagogues and churches are about to open; I know the ‘rona is real when my own Mom assures me she is not going to go to her house of worship, that it is the most unsafe place a person her age to be at. My Mom, whose faith runs deep, generationally as well as spiritually, is turning her back on the center of her worship. That is a real.
On Memorial Day, I took a forty-five minute stroll, the sun beaming on my face, into Times Square, with my walking pal, Michael. For so many weeks, it seemed as if it were just the two of us on this island, left in the epicenter to survive. But no. There are so many of us here. We walked right by them, lounging on the grounds of Bryant Park, masked and unmasked. The clusters feeling comfortable enough in their gathered groups of under ten to take off their masks. Duos walking, masked and unmasked. So many people unmasked. So. Many. People. Unmasked. Still. Beyond that disturbance, seeing people, oh what an elixir, to see us walking, to see us socializing at a distance, to see us, New Yorkers, taking to the street. Not en masse, but certainly more than last week, when Michael and I covered the East Village on our feet, each of us clocking our 20,000 steps.
Life is finding its way. The sun helps. The warmth of course, ever the seductress. And ever the calm.
So, I’m off and running. Meeting my friend, take a ride in her car, go for a stroll in a green pasture. Life in the Epicenter of the Coronavirus is finding its footing, finally.