Dear Yuri,
Can you see me? I’m waving from my window. That’s what we do now: we wave.
When a car passes me as I walk down the road towards the wood, I wave. When my neighbour comes out to do her gardening, I wave across the veg patch. When the postman brings letters or parcels, he leaves them in the shed, and I wave from the front door. When I talk on FaceTime to my beautiful, curly-haired, laughing, funny little grandson, we wave. We wave and wave.
But I long to hold him. To feel his curls under my fingers, to feel his skin on mine, be warmed by his warmth. I want to press my neighbour’s arm and talk about planting seeds, take the postman’s hand and say thank you for the letter, stop the car that passes and lean in through the window to ask how things are going.
I have developed a range of waving options: a cheerful wave, to show I’m fine; a sweeping wave, to show I’m taking all this in my stride; a finger-waggling, slightly ironic wave, to say I’m not being serious; a two-handed wave, to say goodbye.
But I wave, always. And I feel glad I still have those people to wave to, not to have lost them. I wave, and hope they stay well, stay safe, stay where I can see them, waving back at me.