After four weeks of not leaving my house — not even to go to the store or drive anywhere — I thought I was pretty used to this whole quarantine thing.
I’d stayed in isolation because I spent the end of March and beginning of April with several classic COVID-19 symptoms, although my test came back negative.
I had grieved the loss of my son’s wonderful school. I'd also grieved the loss of my vibrant social life. I had grown used to the absence of everything normal.
And then, yesterday, I decided that I’d been home long enough. I needed to drive somewhere, anywhere, all by myself. So, I left my preschooler with my husband and lit out of the house in a euphoric state. I snapped a photo of myself grinning at the camera.
I gripped the foreign-feeling steering wheel, drove down the road, and passed my son’s school. My favorite café. The gas station with its creepily low prices.
And that’s when I burst into sobs. It wasn’t just a tear or two. It was a full-on ugly cry that lasted — wait for it — all the way to the local nursery, 30 minutes away.
I thought of all the people who had died and who are still dying, and I cried for them and their families. I cried for the virus-related nightmares I’ve been having since March. For the way that, in the first weeks of this lockdown, I cried all the time and my preschooler stopped sleeping well, surely sad to see me weep.
(That’s right. I cried for the crying I’d done earlier. I know.)
I also cried for the way our new normal is still so very different from the old. Some businesses are reopening, but it’s cautious, it’s careful.
My son gets to go back to speech therapy, but his therapist wears a mask. There aren’t any other kids there. The trampoline and slide area is closed, as are all the sensory tables. Too many opportunities for germs.
I have to wait in the car and not enter the too-quiet building.
I know all this is necessary, but it still hurts to see. Somehow, when the quarantine began, I thought we’d one day get to snap right back to the way things had been when it was over. But it’s clear now that that’s not going to happen.
By the time I arrived at the little greenhouse yesterday, and waved at the owners with their masks on, I felt wiped out.
I stepped into the humid world of fragrant flowers and summery-smelling tomato, pumpkin, and pepper plants. I filled my cardboard trays with plant after plant after plant for the garden I’ll be starting in May.
I spent more money than I should have, but at least I bought from a local business. God knows they need all our help right now.
The owner waxed poetic about every plant I purchased, and I shut my mouth and just listened to another human, six feet away from me, talking.
The sound filled me up, I tell you.
On the drive home, I couldn’t help it. I played a happy song and let myself feel a little bit more hopeful.
