Twelve months of masks, distance, and the moments we still smiled
It came without warning.
One day, we were living life as usual. The next, we were not.
(We were warned. We just didn’t listen.)
One day, we were at work. The next, we weren’t. The big bosses from next door came bustling in, unsure of what to do—who was? They sent one person home, then another, because they’d been out of town. They staggered schedules. This group could come in on these days, that group on those. We followed the new rules, showing up with half a staff, wide eyes, and uncertainty. And then, one day, we were told to stay home—not just some of the days, but all of them. Not just some of us, but all of us. Across the country—across the world—people were told to leave work. To stay home. To work from home. To alternate days. To not come back at all, because their business couldn’t survive this unknown or the financial blow it brought.
So we stayed home. Everyone stayed home, except to leave for toilet paper. Except to raid the shelves. Except to panic when the shelves were bare and friends brought us milk, or wipes. Everyone was angry. Everyone was scared. But good things happened, too. Friends helped friends. Facebook groups sprung up overnight, where neighbors offered what they had (I had hand soaps!). People who could sew made masks until their fingers must have ached. The rest of us watched Netflix and Tiger King—because distraction, even for an hour, was something.
I remember the warnings. I remember laughing them off. A year earlier, my mom worried she might not be able to see the kids. I told her she was overreacting. She said maybe it would happen, because it was already happening elsewhere. I said no—it wouldn’t be like that here. But then it was. She didn’t see the kids for at least a month. They stayed locked inside, away from a world we were told could kill us.
I learned that while hope is good, sometimes it’s better to heed the warnings. To be optimistic, but cautiously so.
One day, we ran errands without thinking. The next, we wore masks and gasped if we saw an uncovered mouth. We stopped touching things. We stopped going places. We stockpiled as if the end was near. One day, our calendars were full; the next, there was nothing. Events canceled. Stores shuttered. We sat. We waited. We scared ourselves, refreshing the numbers because there was nothing else to do.
One day, my son was in preschool, preparing for a Mother’s Day tea. The next, he wasn’t. He’s asked almost every day since: when will Corona go away?
Preschool ended without him there. Kindergarten started without him there. One day, teachers taught the way they always had; the next, they were scrambling to teach five-year-olds through a computer screen.
One day, we could go to baseball games. The next, we could not. I rarely went before, but suddenly I wanted to—because it was gone. I’d give anything to sit in an uncomfortable plastic seat, eat a hot dog, and read a book while the crowd cheered, even though I hadn’t done it in years.
One day, I’ll take my son on the carousel again. One day, he’ll see his teacher’s whole face. One day, he’ll learn his classmates have smiles under their masks. One day, he won’t be scolded for dancing too close.
I believe that one day, things will be better. Some things will be permanently altered—we’ve lived like this for a year, and that changes you. But I worry, because they say children begin to retain lasting memories around age five. My son was five when this started. Will his earliest memories be masks, hybrid school, and fear? Will he know what school used to be like?
One day, we were told to wear a mask. One day, to stay home. We were frightened, unsure. It was a strange new world. Then one day, it became normal. Masks in the car. Masks in the purse. Masks always at the ready. One day, it felt strange to see my coworkers wearing them. The next, it felt strange to see anyone without one.
Over time, I learned to read smiles in eyes instead of mouths. You watch for the lift of the cheeks, the tiny crinkle near the eyelids. That’s how you know.
And we do still smile.
One day, when this all began, we didn’t. But now we do—whether or not we can see it.
All you have to do is look.
You’ll see it.
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