At the corner of Westcombe and Longton, she sits brilliantly in the cold March sunshine. A small woman wrapped in long fuchsia cloth and wearing a small turban, she watches as my car approaches the general vicinity of her house. I wave. She turns her head slowly toward me, unmoved; unmoving.

I think about her as I run errands. I’ve seen her walking slowly along the sidewalk, barely five feet tall; age undetermined. Her face is small, brown and lined. She could be sixty. She could just as easily be one hundred. She is a recent immigrant from Nepal.

She stares out and up at the sky…at lands I don’t see, winds I don’t feel; the sun at an angle I have never experienced. Her face is stone; absorbing with a direct stare the mountains from whence she came. My face is fluid. I look around mountains, above mountains, beneath mountains.

On my way back I search again for her but she and her chair are gone. She has left the mountain, the wind, the waning spring sun and the front lawn. She has closed her door against the fishbowl which is suburbia…

Breakfast time…something involving a can of Spam, a jar of Cheese Whiz and a bag of Goya crackers. It’s happening downstairs right now. I can’t. I’m upstairs with a large mug of strong coffee. My goals are small today. Today will NOT be the first day I show up to a Zoom meeting in my bathrobe.

I will not show up to my meeting in my bathrobe. I will not.

‘Do you want any of this ham?’ He is yelling upstairs from the general direction of the kitchen. I shake my head. ‘It’s not ham. It’s Spam and I’m afraid’. I do not say this aloud even though I think I do. Or I think I should.

‘Okay! I know where I stand’ he yells back. Did he hear me after all? I can’t. I just can’t. I check. I am dressed. The goal has been met. I hear a couple of cupboard doors slam downstairs. My computer blinks on…

Sunshine, glorious sun streams out over the front yard. It’s only 53 degrees but it feels like a slice of Heaven. We curl up in jeans and hoodies on the porch…the wind chimes bang wildly, madly in the sunny wind.

He’s listening to Salsa Vieja…a lively tune about having fun in New York in the summer. I close my eyes in the cold sun and think about the city…those blistering sidewalks in August, the surging life steam rising off the walls, enjoying an early dinner at The Heights on Broadway or observing high energy hustle at the hour of 4am. Workers struggle to load supplies into a 24 hour diner. They disappear through a rectangular hole in the sidewalk. Up and down, running squeaky metal stairs which tilt at a shockingly dangerous 90 degree angle. Up and down, back up and then down again…moving, lifting, swinging, shouting, sweating heavily, so fast, so fast…slamming the heavy metal doors back down into the long settled grooves of the dirty sidewalk. A few sleepy patrons watch the action from behind the windows of the diner. They lean over the white formica table tops and sip strong coffee.

In a split flash of energy, the workers climb in, slam the doors and the big white truck pulls out into traffic at a rabid angle. “Long Island City’ screams off the rear doors of the rig. They’re gone. It’s only 4:45am.

I wonder when I will go back.

I open my eyes. A few neighbors stroll by the house, walking reluctant dogs, waving cautiously…people we don’t really know, but we are all in this together, apparently.

‘The ghosts are coming out’ he states simply. The music has ended and the porch sits in silence. ‘The ghosts?’ I ask. ‘All the people we have never seen’.

The spring wind picks up again and I reach down to tuck the edges of the large blanket in and around my legs. The wind is slamming the chimes against the white porch posts. It’s so fierce; blowing ghosts and the virus all around…

I remember how it felt as it was all beginning; sliding down into darker places.

Our restaurants, my restaurants…New York restaurants…for Heaven’s sake! From the small town eatery where I tipped over backwards in my high chair to the sweeping avenues of the city. Grilled cheese with tomatoes and greasy fries in a small diner; cavernous Carmine’s, The Turkish Kitchen, the hot dog stand.

I watch the silent and portly man at Columbia Bagel on the Upper West Side; wearing black and white checked pants and cap, his arms the size of logs stirring the huge vat of hot water where bagels rise and float, rise and float, in time covering themselves at the front counter with inch thick bricks of cream cheese and wax paper. Upstate, my home…the cities by the lakes; Buffalo’s lamb butter, Beef on Weck on salted buns…Rochester’s garbage plate…the high end birthday parties at Black and Blue…the fabulous plate of souvlakia at Jines…Peppermints in Henrietta and the beloved Maple Tree Inn…gallons and gallons of amber boiling syrup. Everything is shuttered and closed down by 8pm; for the duration of whatever it is we are beginning to endure.

Silence. It is astonishing; stunningly so. To support our neighborhood China Panda…I head off to purchase a significant amount of take out…a gesture if nothing more, an act of defiance. We’re not even hungry. Upon arrival, there is a hand printed sign with a note reminding the public they are closed on Monday. Of all things.

We are reduced to inconsistent take out and delivery; it is eerily quiet on the drive home. Everyone is indoors. Our restaurants, my restaurants…the city. I dig out a pan of stuffed peppers in the freezer and with reluctance, bake them.

By any stretch of the imagination, my favorite weekday activity is attempting to get into the driver seat of my car after discovering upon entering the garage that my husband has managed to park his truck too close to mine. By any stretch…here’s how it rolls.

Step one: notice the extra room on the passenger side of the car and think ‘how nice’. Throw all the bags and a laptop into the passenger seat. Step two: notice after looking at my watch that unless I get going quickly, I am going to be late to work. Note that the weather is chilly, yet lovely. Take a moment to breathe in the fresh air outside the garage. Walk around to the driver seat of the car. Discover that unless my entire body is suddenly 100 percent dehydrated, there is no way that I am going to be able to enter the car from this side. Step three: consider for precisely one second running back upstairs to wake up my husband to come downstairs to move his offending vehicle.

Step four: walk back around to the other side of the car. Take all bags and laptop out of the car and throw them into the back seat. Take a deep breath and enter the front seat, left leg, left side, right leg, right side. Close passenger side door. Step five: attempt to lift and re-locate left leg and entire left side up and over the center console, while simultaneously moving right leg and right side slowly to the left. Discover that long hair, my bent neck, a work lanyard, a necklace and a parking permit when converging underneath a rearview mirror, are highly likely to become stuck.

Acknowledge five long seconds of panic. Realize that I might die this morning. Calm down.

Step six: try again and fall ungracefully into the driver seat only to discover that the shoe lace of my right shoe is now hooked around the radio volume knob. Stretch forward to untangle the right foot shoe lace while listening to a series of weird popping noises coming from both knees…painless, yet weird.

Step seven: figure out a way to move the right leg and the rest of my entire right side up and over the console, away from the radio, under the dashboard and the steering wheel while listening to more strange and disturbing popping noises emanating from both knees and possibly my lower back. Painless…and yet…and yet.

Open the driver seat door to untangle the seat belt. Strap myself in and re-slam the door. Make sure I can actually sit up straight after all of these gymnastics and realize that this afternoon will require a trip to the chiropractor. Finally, back out of the driveway while my husband sleeps blissfully on and unaware…knowing for sure that I am going to be very, very late…

Yesterday’s news…celebrating the first full week of spring and the reopening of the Scottsville Diner; slowly sweeping away the cobwebs of pandemic with our small town style. We are seated comfortably in a tight booth where the coffee is fresh, the bacon is crisp and greasy, mud ploughed air blows in over the fields…and where everyone loathes the Governor…

It’s a golden dappled sunny cold afternoon and I watch early evening shadows bend, dip and slowly broaden along the length of the white walled patio. I heard the mourning dove today as I strolled through our silent neighborhood. A number of birds chirp wildly still, dipping crazily up and close to the edge of the living room windows, swooping back out again into the yard; streaking shadows. They are unaware of what they observe.

We’ve wound painfully around to the end of a difficult week…the second full week of this pandemic, a time of forced isolation, a shredding of the rug underneath our feet. It’s been torn away and we stand unevenly. I phone my Mother. She’s doing well and remarks on the isolating silence of her neighborhood. It is so startlingly quiet that the deer entering her backyard to munch on spring grass, linger longer than usual and then gather quietly together to lie down in the grass. There is no sound to disturb them.

‘I’ve lived here more than fifty-five years and I have never, ever seen this happen’ she exclaims. ‘They are truly resting in the meadow’. I picture this in my mind while listening on the phone. I read earlier today about a fox attack somewhere. Nature seems nervous, like the rest of us.

I open the patio window for a few minutes of fresh air before it gets too chilly. There are bits and pieces of a conversation drifting up on the wind over the sidewalk…’Yes, it came on so quickly’…’You’re doing well?’ There is a muffled response and then a quick farewell. A front door slams shut. People want to talk to each other but no one wants to be the one who is a carrier, who violates ‘social distancing’, who harms anyone. I have said, ‘Be well’ more times than I remember. Be well, my country. Be well.

‘Tomorrow is spring? Tomorrow is spring!’ he answers his own question. ‘Yes’ I nod. ‘End of the road, in theory’. ‘Well, well…all because the beaver did not see his tail!’ Silence. ‘Or the chipmunk’. He continues. I jump in. ‘The groundhog, the groundhog didn’t see his tail, I mean his shadow’. He nods. ‘Yes, we lucked out this year’.

We enter the restaurant and he begins friendly banter with the waiter. They chatter happily in Spanish. We are seated. He announces, ‘I’m going to ask him where he’s from when he comes back. I’m pretty good at guessing the sounds’. I ask, ‘Where do you think?’ ‘Uh, the Dominican Republic’ he states. ‘The Dominican Republic?’ I express doubt. ‘Yes’ he nods his head firmly. The waiter returns. They start to talk. I hear it. ‘The Dominican’. The waiter turns to me to translate. I don’t interrupt him. Then he says, ‘but I’m only half from the DR. If either of you guesses the other half, I’ll pay for both of your dinners’.

I’m a little nervous playing this game as I’m the token Anglo here. Or is it ‘Angla’? ‘Um’. I’m silent. He loves a challenge and quickly pipes up. ‘German? Half German?’ The waiter responds happily, ‘Nope!’ I offer up, ‘Irish?’ What am I going to say, after all? Upon entering the establishment I noted I was the only white person in our section. He laughs at me and then says, ‘My people. Where did they all come from? They came in with the surge!’ He laughs again and looks at me. ‘You said that, not me’ I speak quietly. He laughs again. ‘I say what I want!’ He chuckles. ‘Your people, you know!’ and wags his finger. I smile.

After more guessing, it turns out the waiter’s other half is French. ‘Well, it’s hard to tell, after all’. He sighs as he concedes that we have missed the mark.

I never would have guessed French. But I know the sound from the Dominican. They just say things a certain way. And Argentina and Brazil, I’ve gotten better at. But all the others? I don’t have any idea.

I look around the restaurant again. ‘French. Who would have guessed French?’ The bill arrives and we discuss the tip. ‘Oh’, he says and seems surprised. I glance at him rather coyly, ‘White guilt’. He shakes his head and hands the signed copy to the waiter. I chuckle. ‘I say what I want’. My turn. He and the waiter banter happily as we exit the restaurant…

At the week’s end…when emotions and actions swirl together into a mind’s mess and pile, I attempt to unwind by watching a documentary on the television about the British Empire.

Startled, I remember his favorite game, that of naming British royalty…every last one of them…all the way back to the beginning; the most incongruous personalities and names; the most obstreperous, dangerous and elite personalities. The whole lot of them, all that we left behind upon sailing for the new world.

Then I know that books unread and jokes unmade is my new lot. It is then that I miss him the most…

Pandemic news from the home front: Eli is rearranging my kitchen, my pantry, my world. I remember my great grandmother stating firmly that men, children and pets belonged out of the kitchen. As a child, I scoffed. Now, as of this morning, I’m reconsidering things.

This is how it rolls: ‘What are all these jars?’ I look at the top shelf. ‘Those are the vases and candy jars from the baby shower’. ‘Can I take them to the basement?’ I consider this for a minute…my beautiful glassware going down cellar steps into the gloom. ‘Sure, but leave them on the counter. I will wrap and carry them down myself’. He continues. ‘It’s important to have a lot of storage, you know. I need long term storage for all this rice and pasta’. I look up in the general direction of the ceiling. ‘Yes, of course’ I concede. I watch as my cut glass punch bowl descends to the counter. ‘We’re not using this soon, are we?’ I look at the etched bowl and the cloth bag with the carefully wrapped ladle. ‘Well, we’re in the middle of a pandemic, so probably not soon’.

I search through another cupboard for the last of my Wegmans plastic bags since apparently I’m going to be spending some time today wrapping glass. He’s speaking again. ‘Rice and pasta are good staples to have. This household should never be without rice and pasta’. I stand up from bending over the plastic bags. ‘Have I ever reminded you of someone who was not deeply attached to carbohydrates?’ ‘Hmmm’ he’s considering the outside of the pantry.

Now, he rummages around in the refrigerator. ‘Why is this in here?’ He lugs out a large pot full of spaghetti sauce. ‘We need to consolidate this, make better use of space’. I receive the pot, dutifully scrape the sauce into a smaller glass bowl and replace it in the refrigerator. He eyes the pantry again. ‘I’m going to build new wood shelves for the pantry. I think these metal ones are going to fall. It’s important to have strong shelves’. I close my eyes, making metal note of another summer house project. ‘What’s this now?’ He’s left the pantry and is back in the refrigerator. Out of a far end shelf corner emerges a package of pork chops which have recently ‘crossed over’. ‘My mistake, didn’t cook those in time’. He shrugs. I respond tiredly, ‘It’s okay’. He continues. ‘You need to remind me of what’s in here’.

I start to load the dishwasher. He scoots out of the kitchen. He’s yelling. ‘I’m going to order glass storage containers. What’s your Amazon account number?’ I clean out another cupboard and find two stained plastic containers and three lids which match nothing. Into the recycling bin they go. In a few minutes I hear him rustling about in the garage where I have just rid my self of the stained mismatched plastic. ‘Hey! Why are these in the recycling?’

I look out the window and think about my great grandmother.