I wake in the middle of the night knowing something in the air has changed. The neighborhood has reached a silence that can only mean one thing. I wait for it in the dark with nothing but the sound of my own breath, and finally…there. There it is.
Another season quietly arrives in the predawn hours on the tail of the setting moon, and I can no longer sleep. Alert with anticipation, I stare into the shadows.
Hello old friend.
It’s been six months since Covid first made headlines as it began its sweep through New York City. Six months since the endless scream of sirens racing up and down our streets forever changed our understanding of fear and faith. Six months since we were first truly awoken, as a collective, to the reality of what it means and should mean to be alive.
In my ant-sized NYC apartment, there live two ravenously-hungry adults always in search of second helpings and snacks, alongside two beastly-appetited cats, each of whom weighs no more than four pounds yet somehow continue to crave wildebeest-sized meals (both frightening and impressive). So, how do I plan to continue to feed everyone a somewhat uncompromising diet during such apocalyptic events as the Corona outbreak? By remembering to use my brain to plan and buy balanced meals and not my emotions.