Three years ago this week, the world as we knew it had closed.
A fragmented NYC remembrance in 5 extremely short chapters.
Three years ago this week, the world as we knew it had closed.
Chapter 1: But Can We Hug?
I remember March 9, a friend’s birthday celebration in the West Village. I remember thinking, are we supposed to be touching? But can we hug if we don’t kiss? It’s okay, right? As long as we wash our hands? As long as we don’t share food or glasses? It’s okay that we’re all squeezed in this tiny back room of a restaurant together, right?
Jon and I took the subway home that night. We stood, holding the poles with our elbows. That was the last subway for a long time. That was the last friends dinner for a long time.
Exactly a week later, I pulled my kids out of school. The “two week” timeline had been floating around. That seemed a wee bit optimistic, if you were following the numbers.
Chapter 2: Too Quiet.
We didn’t have the privilege to turn off the TV and tune out the scary stuff — the incessant ambulance wails out our window made sure of that.
Between sirens, the eerily quiet city streets became our new normal. Like during a snowstorm, but without the snow. It was so quiet, you could hear the click of the traffic lights as they changed. So quiet, you could stand over the BQE at the Brooklyn, promenade and actually count the seconds between passing cars.
The Brooklyn Bridge was open, but it was empty.
“No, you can’t see your friends yet, I’m sorry.”
“No, we can’t see your grandparents yet.”
That one hurt the most.
Chapter 3: Foraging
We wrapped scarves around our mouths and hunted down supplies and sundries like it was Season One of The Walking Dead — Two surprise hand sanitizers in the back! Let’s take one and leave one for a neighbor. And should we grab those off-brand disinfectant wipes while it’s here? There’s only a tiny pack of flour left, can we work with that? Shelf-stable milk seems like a good idea…
Jon and I decided we’d make an excellent zombie apocalypse team. I could scavenge and barter, he could fix things. I could grow basil on the windowsill, he could ensure ample wifi bandwidth for 6 computers.
I now understand that this is a wildly underrated but essential key to a strong relationship — complimentary survival skills under pressure.
Chapter 4: Together, Apart. But Sometimes Just Apart.
On social media, I shared charts about “flattening the curve.” I tracked the daily case numbers. I watched the death rates climb higher than we could have imagined. At the same time, I watched other families in other towns sharing spring break photos, the winning home run at the little league game, the dinner plans.
Their reality was my surreality. My reality was their worst fear.
The massive rift in the country broke wide open.
Social media threads were filled with jabs at New Yorkers who were leaving town: “You keep your germs in your own filthy city.” “We don’t need you here.” “Don’t bring your plague our way, you’re not welcome in our state.”
A far cry from the post-9/11days of I ❤️ NY More Than Ever. I guess it’s easier to be supportive when you don’t think the terrors are coming your way anyway.
Of course most people were incredibly kind. Not all, though. That still stings to think about.
And then, there were the givers.
Those who stayed in my building posted notes in the lobby, offering to run errands for older neighbors. People traded homemade bread-baking tips and slid baggies of yeast under front doors. We gathered up toys and books for younger kids who were bored out of their heads. We brought hot coffee downstairs for the doormen and building staff.
As we started going outside more, everyone in Brooklyn smiled at each other as we passed — even if we did stay six feet apart. We had to smile extra big too, from behind those masks.
(It was the eye crinkle that always gave it away.)
Local kids drew chalk rainbows on the sidewalk. Families hung homemade posters in their windows saying Black Lives Matter and We Love Our Front-Line Workers. As divided as the country was, New York felt as close and supportive as we always are in a crisis.
My own next-door neighbors offered us unconditional use of their apartment for a full year while they were out of town, a kindness which I can never ever possibly repay; I can only hope to pay it forward.
Conflict reveals character.
Chapter 5: Sweet Cacophony
What I remember, as much as the silence outside, were the sounds of life inside our tiny apartment: Laughter. Singing. Off-key singing (mostly mine). Giggling that echoed from wall to wall, room to room.
The sweet cacophony of family dinners as a table for four became a table for six.
The bittersweet catharsis of banging pots and pans with metal spoons every night at 7 PM, culminating in raucous applause for any frontline workers who might hear us.
The online games with cousins. The zoom Passover Seder connecting four cities.
The TikTok dances I sucked at, but tried over and over until we could film them together.
The ironic audience-participation family viewing of CATS. (Rule #1: You have to scream HANDS! every time you see human hands.)
The themed dinners with four kids — dress like your favorite decade! Dress like a profession! Dress like your favorite cartoon character!
The yelp from behind closed doors as one kid or another caught some fish in Animal Crossing.
The free concerts and theater that artists graciously performed over Zoom.
The blowdryers on the night we dressed up extra-fancy to watch Hamilton premiere on TV.
The hilarious FaceTime calls with the grandparents, especially those who aren’t quite so adept at FaceTiming. (No offense, grandparents. You’ve gotten better since then.)
The kids talking in their own kid language, with their own inside jokes and references and acronyms and memes and punchlines not meant for the adults to understand.
Together Together always beats Together Apart. Sometimes you just have to wait for it.
Postscript
Three years ago this week, the world as we knew it had closed. More than that, it changed forever, and there’s no pretending that it didn’t.
We didn’t lose as much as others, but we all — every one of us — lost something. If only time with people we love that we won’t get back.
I knew I’d remember that part. I knew I’d remember all the awful things, so many of which I didn’t describe here. But I never would have expected that I would be able to look back on so many silver linings, too.
Maybe that’s a privilege. Maybe it’s a choice. Maybe it’s my brain’s coping mechanism.
Maybe it’s just one of my many survival skills I’ll be keeping around for the zombie apocalypse.
Welcome to so many new subscribers! I’m sorry I’ve been remiss in publishing new columns lately. Life has been busy, phew, and I have some business travel on the horizon. I do have a massive stack of ideas I can’t wait to share, stories to tell, things for us to laugh at, so stay tuned. We do need more laughter these days, right? Not just me?
And if you’re not a subscriber yet, well let’s get on that! I promise to make it worth your while. - Liz
Your memory is only trumped by your ability to evoke those days and to reminded us what we remembered and what we’ve forgotten.. For us, it was driving to Love Lane on Mothers Day to surprise your girls. Seeing the tears on their faces when they realized it was us, looking out the windows because we knew we couldn’t get close, and keeping in our hearts the importance of family and the connection of love-even it was through clean glass automobile windows.
I could feel every word.