Margie

Margie and I still meet once a week and enjoy each other’s company, though since mid-March, we “meet” on our respective computers. We exchange thoughts about the books we’re reading and the films or good documentaries we’ve been streaming. (She recommends a film called American Son that has helped her see how different policing is for Black families in the USA than for white families. I recommend Immigration Nation and Ibram Kendi.) We ask about each other’s children and grandchildren. We talk about the protests. 

Our health is stable; we laugh that we are “safe, because not doing anything.” Her daughter takes her out for a walk around the block (masked and shielded and leaning on her cane and her daughter’s arm) once a week. Her children don’t want her out alone, nor more often than once a week. She has no visitors. Her daughter leaves food outside her door. Sometimes they talk for a few minutes, but her daughter doesn't come in, doesn't touch. Her daughter is still working part-time in an office with other people.

I asked today if Margie feels like she’s on House Arrest. She laughed. “Well, it’s a very pleasant house. I’m aware of my great privilege, to have books and attentive children….” Her voice trails off. Five months of barely leaving her house—even for someone as positive as Margie, is a serious life-change. “I miss being able to hug people,” she confesses. “Touch, human touch, is a beautiful thing.” I am almost ashamed to tell her I saw the grandchildren yesterday. How amazing it was to hug them. I do tell her, and she cheers for me. 

We adapt and make the best of things, we’re grateful for what we have. The world has changed profoundly. We try to acknowledge that without mourning too much.