My boyfriend drank a Corona from the box in the fridge. We had bought two twelve packs back in January because it’s his favorite beer.
I tell my kids not to touch anything or anyone in the office and, immediately, my daughter touches the statue of the children, the fish tank, and is one inch away from a little girl with a mask on.
I never ever sent my kids to school hungry although they were a bit late sometimes.
We like our politicians to be bland technocrats, for obvious historical reasons, but that doesn’t mean they cannot occasionally inspire.
I found solace in that security guard’s enthusiasm, solace in Ayón’s work, and in the Chicago Cultural Center’s beauty.
Then I saw the effect the forced isolation was having on my wife.
We are talking about our lack of consistent showering, we are talking about our addictions and telling people our feelings.
Downstairs, my grandparents argue over the TV’s low volume, their voices rising and falling like a muffled opera aria.
A visual counterpart to our Dispatches from a Pandemic series
To me it was like returning to a burning house to get just one more thing—though I was afraid of what I couldn’t see rather than any blinding smoke.
The ground was frozen. Her body became the same.
We panicked all evening, clearing our throats, secretly gargling with hydrogen peroxide.
“I’m doing fine. You just need to worry about me getting arrested for shooting one of these fucking turkeys who are buying up all the toilet paper.”
Maybe if I’m busy thinking about COVID-19, I won’t have room to think about the living, screaming person that will soon detach itself from my own person.
After all, as Camus reminds us, plague never really dies.
All night long I replayed the five minutes we had spent at this tourist attraction, trying to remember if I had gotten close to any strangers
My wife, who is usually in charge of buying groceries, seemed perplexed by some of my purchases for outlasting the apocalypse.
How does one “shelter in place” when one has limited shelter?
In the city that some used to call the Seattle of Italy, nowadays you can only overdose on poetry.
The coronavirus has made me feel more connected to the world than I have felt in a long time.
What if, having escaped Hitler, Gidon is killed by a microscopic bug?
Each panel felt a little like The Decameron, where we listened and told stories while the weight of the plague swung over us like a poorly-anchored chandelier.
“Love As The World Ends”
“If This Next Apocalypse Gets Canceled Or Postponed”
“Would you like to go for a dinner, let’s say in one or two months, if restaurant will be reopened by that time?” I imagine he would ask.