I left New York City on March 5 to fly home to Washington State. I’d spent 3 weeks with my new granddaughter and her parents.The COVID-19 pandemic was a known entity, but the US was still counting on its exceptionalism and other stupid beliefs to discount the threat’s reality. I’d stayed in my usual midtown hotel. Although it was far from fancy, it still was popular and had a crossroads-of-the-world feeling. I’d hoped to treat myself to a ticket to Carnegie Hall on my last night, to see an all-star trio play Beethoven. My husband asked me not to go. Cautious by nature, he is a retired physician living with cancer and was highly-attuned to the news and possibilities of the virus. Since I was pretty exhausted, I capitulated without any disagreement.

What if I’d gone? Who knows? When I arrived at the deserted JFK Airport, I realized the denial phase was ending for New York. I read a piece in the New Yorker recently which mentioned an Icelander who’d been in NYC at the same time as I had. Just before he left, he attended a party with finger foods. He got sick soon after he got back home.

The trio (Yo-yo Ma! Emanuel Ax! Kavakos!) played, no doubt beautifully, packed up their instruments, and hunkered down at home. The virus continues its travels and depredations. People demonstrate their range of horrific and soul-stirring behaviors. Beloved things, like her mother’s face, disappear and reappear in our granddaughter’s world, to her enormous delight. Peek-a-boo!