In Tokyo, it didn’t happen overnight. Since February, we’ve withdrawn from each other gradually, inching towards this quiet dusk.
First, I noticed more wobbly bicyclists. Bike lanes became busier. Commuters avoided trains, their unsure legs pushing dusty frames.
Schools closed. Some foreigners left. Others toodled around their kitchens. Daily life here is a kind of lullaby that makes you feel safe. We stayed closer and closer to home, like cats circling our beds. We rediscovered forgotten belongings. Old stories got retold. Toys came back to life.
Then came the reports from Italy. Neighbours I barely knew prayed in the elevator, “I think here we’ll be ok. I wish I could bring my parents.” I started liking things that usually make me itch: masks, rules, order. A goodbye bow.
New York is precious to me. That city is breath itself. I’m up all-night checking on them. In the bleary morning, cherry blossoms burst below my window, drunk on fresh air. I photograph them to know time still moves.
The US government alerts its citizens, “Return Home Now, or Expect to Remain Abroad Indefinitely.” I lie in bed, thinking of Americans I know living abroad. An hour later, already dressed, I realize, “Oh, that’s me.”’
Are we protecting us from them, or them from us? Lazy minds decide it’s the other who is probably infected. But this virus is for everyone, like blossoms and rain. On the phone with other continents, parallel realities keep flipping. Mine becomes yours. We take care of both.
We let one last meeting go forward, between my three-year-old and his best friend. They wore masks and talked superheroes and monsters.
There is no master switch to shut down Tokyo. Is there anywhere? Rather, we all pray in the elevator, giving thanks for those who keep us alive.