The first time I heard of the novel coronavirus, it was far away—in China. I dismissed it. I couldn’t imagine it coming to the United States. It was not an option in my mind. And then I saw on the news COVID 19 was indeed alive and well in my country. But it happened to other people. Increasingly, the reports said the virus was spreading exponentially. Other countries were experiencing lockdowns. Essential businesses like supermarkets, for example, could remain open, but everyone else had to close their businesses and schools. And then on March 18, 2020, my state said to shelter in place. Oh well, it wouldn’t last long. Like the virus, it was a novel experience.

Days turned into weeks and fear settled throughout my body. Masks were encouraged and then required. I learned a new word, acedia or listlessness. That described me. I wasn’t writing much because my muse had deserted me. It became a question of what to do with my time. I cooked more than usual. It required more trips to the grocery store, but I wasn’t keen on going because I worried about exposure to the virus. I was shocked that toilet paper was scarce as were cleaning products. It almost felt like I was in a war-torn country. Once I stood in line for an hour to get into a big-box grocery store. People were patient for the most part. But there were one or two whose anxiety spilled over into the crowd by arguing about who was in line first.

 As time marched on, more businesses have opened in certain areas. Some school districts have opted to open their schools. Others require online learning. And I worry about the economic state of our country. How long can we continue to exist as we are? Answers elude me. I’m hopeful we’ll have a vaccine soon. My concerns seem to be those of everyone. At least I’m not alone in my ruminations.