Locked down

“We’re all in this together” said the murals that brightened the downtown streets where we stayed far apart from each other on our socially-distanced walks, with our faces covered and our hands in our pockets.

“See you in two weeks” said my colleagues when the state of emergency hit the news and we were sent home from work to shelter in place “for 14 days”.

“A, B, C, D…” I sang in my head as I washed my hands so frequently they started to look like the crypt keeper’s.

“Should we learn to make our own candles or try to make bread?” I asked my boyfriend, as we searched for new ways to keep ourselves entertained.

“Grab a pot and pan!” we said every night at 7pm before we stood on our balconies to cheer, and try to feel together in our isolation.

“Did you hear? There’s a vaccine!” said everybody as we anxiously awaited a light at the end the tunnel and a return to normalcy.

“Start saving up hugs for me!” I told my Mom over the phone from outside of her bedroom window, when we were finally weeks away from the vaccine rollout.

“She tested positive” said the voice on the phone, and though my stomach dropped I told myself I wasn’t worried. Everything would be fine.

“There’s nothing we can do” said the doctor, a few days later, in the big hospital hallway, where we gathered because we weren’t allowed in her room.

And I no longer felt like we were all in this together.

I felt betrayed by modern medicine. I felt offended by how useless an entire hospital could be. I felt the most alone I’d ever been, as now I didn’t even have my own optimism to keep me company.

In the dead of winter and our strictest lockdown protocols, we were sent home to isolate separately.

The next day, the phone rang again. And when I hung it up, the silence of my empty, 500 square foot apartment tried to swallow me alive for every second of every day after that.

But then parcels started to pile up outside my door.

First flowers. Then plants. Then food. Fruit baskets and ice cream. Cards. Wine. White Spot. UberEats gift cards. Then more food. A lot more food. Three weeks’ worth of catered meals better suited for elated wedding guests and the only reason I ate at all.

And my phone kept lighting up. Missed calls. Unanswered texts. A video message of a comfort song played on the ukulele. A link to a whole webpage my friends had built for me, complete with a beautiful message and a slideshow of photos of us over the years.

And I was not alone anymore.

Three years ago today, our world slowed and screeched to a halt for a very long time. The people stayed home. The planes stayed on the ground. The cars stayed parked on the street. We protected each other by doing nothing at all.

There is something lovely about the simplicity of it all.

And in my darkest of days, the knocks at my door kept letting the light in. My friends brought me back from heartbreak by doing nothing short of everything.

There is a quiet beauty in the kindness of staying home to keep fellow humans safe, and the kindness of checking in on your friends. But trust me, it’s not actually quiet at all.

The last three years taught me this: Our lives depend on each other’s kindness in more ways than one.

And I will spend the rest of my days aspiring to the devastating kindness of my friends’ rockabilly hearts.