The lights go out, one city, one county, one state at a time. That’s how I envision it, a rolling blackout overtaking the life we once knew, just days ago. Sitting in a coffee shop and enjoying the soft buzz of conversation is somehow a memento of life before, a sweet memory of last week, tinged with the eerie, stomach-churning nostalgia of something that happened far too recently to qualify as nostalgic.
Yesterday, son in car seat, husband in driver’s seat, we set out to find an empty space where we could all run and forget the surreality of our reality. Park number one was too crowded, and the field at the local school packed with a handful of people, far too many to qualify for frolicking and social distancing in tandem. So we drove on, to another park, one that I thought might work. We found an empty soccer field and jumped and skipped and threw frisbees and although I was there with my family never had I felt more alone in the world. I felt grateful for having my husband and son, and sad for friends I know who must truly socially isolate, without others to run with or laugh with or hold into the darkness of the many nights ahead.
Our world is indeed upside down. It is incredible that so many in this country don’t know it yet, but it’s coming. Those rolling blackouts, each light of the life we have come to assume to be the only life we’ll ever know is put out, twinkling bright until it’s not. We are breathing fresh air and then sucked into the depths of the sea, suffocated with little warning.
But this isn’t a death sentence–for most of us. This too shall pass. We’ll dig out of this darkness at some point–in 3 months, in 6 months, in 18 months–but soon, soon enough, the lights will flicker on again, and there we’ll be, expected to move on and forget about how we’ve all drowned and resurfaced in our own reincarnation. Those of us who make it. The many of us who do. As we mourn those who did not. There, on the other side.
The darkness is upon us. It is not as scary as a tsunami or hurricane or tornado or earthquake, but with it is the same danger, at far greater scale. We see the waves pull back from the shore and stare out at the sand admiring the vast landscape of emptiness and loneliness. We take a breath and it feels like the waves will forever recede as we walk six feet apart from each other and question our agreement to not embrace or come near each other. And then, with the rumbling of the angriest gods, a tidal wave so big comes racing to shore, to us standing frozen still, staring at it in denial it could ever tackle us down so viciously.
How many of us believe it will come? It doesn’t matter. For it will.
life with interest 