Day 7: Magic Hour
On the time-lapse map of how the virus spread, each infected person is depicted as a tiny red dot. The dots cluster and then migrate out of the province in distinct routes like so much pollen across the continents. I can't shake the figure: during the first 23 days of January before the lockdown, seven million of these vectors travelled out of the province.
My elderly parents, my mother-in-law and her sister, they are all in New York City. All have been following "Matilda's Law," enacted by Governor Cuomo to protect the vulnerable population of seniors, requiring residents over the age of 70 to remain in their homes. They reassure me that they have enough provisions, that they can still go out to shop during the early morning "senior" hour.
I scour the news looking for a shingle to hang some hope on but things are grim. Soaring infection rates in New York, a federal government that is unresponsive, hospitals desperately lacking medical supplies and equipment, the political canyon deepening between those desperate for the promise of Easter service at church and those who want to flatten the curve.
In the evening, I don't have the energy to wash dishes. Much easier just to stand and stare out the window across the expanse of field abutting woods in the back and the mountain known as Chick Hill beyond. But the yard, muddy as all March in Maine, and the dull grass beyond in the field suddenly look alive. I motion to Matt to come over.
"This is it, isn't it." I say to him. We both look out toward the yard and the barren field beyond lit gold. A photographer, his biology is nearly phototonic. I have heard him speak in nearly reverential tones about "magic hour," the time of day when the sun has dipped below the horizon and the last rays are reflected back by the atmosphere. The effect is a softer light often described as "hazy." When the world is, for brief, fleeting moments, free of shadow.
He nods, his eyes scanning the scene.
"Quick!" I shout to M. who is working on a connect-the-dots but who is quick to his feet. We grab our phones, shove our feet into shoes, and stumble down the front steps. We run and stop, squint and snap. I look up, struck by the grid of telephone wires and poles, wondering how I had missed that before. I dash to the backyard. Had the birdhouse and dry bird bath ever looked so, so funereal? M. giggles, having inadvertently taken his first selfies. Before it darkens, it feels as if time is suspended.
Later that night, after they have gone to sleep, I flip through the photos. Pause. At the lilac hues, the crisp details, the suchness, the inextricable beauty of our ordinary lives.
My elderly parents, my mother-in-law and her sister, they are all in New York City. All have been following "Matilda's Law," enacted by Governor Cuomo to protect the vulnerable population of seniors, requiring residents over the age of 70 to remain in their homes. They reassure me that they have enough provisions, that they can still go out to shop during the early morning "senior" hour.
I scour the news looking for a shingle to hang some hope on but things are grim. Soaring infection rates in New York, a federal government that is unresponsive, hospitals desperately lacking medical supplies and equipment, the political canyon deepening between those desperate for the promise of Easter service at church and those who want to flatten the curve.
In the evening, I don't have the energy to wash dishes. Much easier just to stand and stare out the window across the expanse of field abutting woods in the back and the mountain known as Chick Hill beyond. But the yard, muddy as all March in Maine, and the dull grass beyond in the field suddenly look alive. I motion to Matt to come over.
"This is it, isn't it." I say to him. We both look out toward the yard and the barren field beyond lit gold. A photographer, his biology is nearly phototonic. I have heard him speak in nearly reverential tones about "magic hour," the time of day when the sun has dipped below the horizon and the last rays are reflected back by the atmosphere. The effect is a softer light often described as "hazy." When the world is, for brief, fleeting moments, free of shadow.
He nods, his eyes scanning the scene.
"Quick!" I shout to M. who is working on a connect-the-dots but who is quick to his feet. We grab our phones, shove our feet into shoes, and stumble down the front steps. We run and stop, squint and snap. I look up, struck by the grid of telephone wires and poles, wondering how I had missed that before. I dash to the backyard. Had the birdhouse and dry bird bath ever looked so, so funereal? M. giggles, having inadvertently taken his first selfies. Before it darkens, it feels as if time is suspended.
Later that night, after they have gone to sleep, I flip through the photos. Pause. At the lilac hues, the crisp details, the suchness, the inextricable beauty of our ordinary lives.
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