March 13, 2024

“That Time We Had to Stay Home”

The usual snappy or soothing banter between my podcast friends didn’t feel appropriate as I navigated through Denver’s lower downtown, exiting the city to shelter in place 75 miles away in the middle of nowhere. I preferred the silence. Like a pause someone takes gathering thoughts as they tell a story. The traffic was sparse, the foot traffic along the sidewalks even more so, limited to a young couple grasping grocery-heavy paper bags. They were hunched over against the March wind, or the drizzly snow, or the invisible virus. A white plastic bag twirling and dancing in the wind just over the empty street ahead of me was the only other traffic on a street usually busy with people and cars ending their work week or heading into the many bars and restaurants along the street. Without the radio, with my windows rolled up, a heavy silence buzzed in my ears. I watched the plastic bag twirling, the couple huddled against windy rain, the anticipatory grief welling up for this good-bye on Friday the 13th. As I drove, I murmured goodbyes to the city. My commute led me away from downtown to the suburbs, which became exurbs that in turn became grasslands. Grief took root.