From Quarantine

by Susan Gregory

Now I am living in the country.  I live at the beginning of a road with three small houses opposite and one beside.  It is very quiet.  My neighbors and I grow excited when we spot one another outside; prolonged waving ensues, shouts of “How are you?” asked with a mixture of anxiety and hopefulness.

I have been here for seven weeks.  I have watched spring unfurl, the wall of forsythia, the giant magnolia tree, the daffodils, the lilacs, the quince bush, the redbuds.  I used to thrill at these sights and fragrances, experiencing them on weekends;  my responses now are muted, since I am angry that I am self-consigned to be here, barred by sensible decision from the thrum and bustle of my home city, from the life-long thrill of human variety, people-created forms, daily greetings from my neighbors in many languages.

Imagine! I have a choice about where to live. How dare I complain? It is probable that, at 76, I will survive this epidemic. So will most of my friends and colleagues. My daughter, who lives in Brooklyn, has already survived a bout with Covid.  I was prevented from bringing her chicken soup, which always makes me feel better. I am angry that my improvisatory lifestyle is interrupted.

Now I am staring out the window at the hundred-year-old walnut tree in the small forest that edges my property. 

Beside it are the twenty headstones of a family cemetery, established by the farmers whose land this once was. Their deep roots represent an ordered past which I am doubting we will experience again.  For now, I need to discover whether I might be able to put down my roots here. These are the early stages of resisted transition, describable only in sensation. 

 A brown fox just bounded across the lawn, running down toward the river.  I want to follow her…