Dear Yuri,
Airplanes scar the cloudless sky. The smoky scent of intimacy carries in on the breeze from a barbecue. Connections, new and old, swirl among plumes of cigarette smoke in a pub garden. I’m struck by the absence of an outside world. It makes me feel tender, sensitive in a way I haven’t been before – to people, to nature, to spring. Crimson roses emerge from the thorny tangle obscuring the glass panes, as do roots of hope. Handwritten offers of help posted through the letterboxes of the elderly, homemade meals dropped on the doorsteps of those in isolation, complimentary car servicing for frontline NHS staff, shuttered factories turning their efforts to design innovative PPE. On my precious daily walk, I glance into other windows. There are people cooking, reading, watching TV, scrolling on phones – their faces up lit in an ethereal blue glow. I have never been more aware that behind every window is a person; a shared consciousness connected by this unified experience, yet completely separate and different person to person. And, despite all the absence, that presence is enough.
I feel a sense of grief, not just for the devastating loss of human life, but for the components that make up humanity – the thread that stitches together the fabric of society. I grieve not only for those who have died, their friends and family, but for something less tangible – community. I grieve for small business owners, restaurant and hotel founders, the self-employed, the gig economy workers bound by the limits of their own employment. Yet, even among the loss and despair, are seeds of hope.