Six feet, apart or under. You choose.

My ex-husband, Ross, is over sixty and has a suppressed immune system. When the children and I had a conference last week, we came to the obvious conclusion: “He needs to stay in.”

Actually, time feels a little broken right now, so I can’t recall exactly when the conference occurred. In those early days, ten minutes or ten years ago, it was hard to know—Is this it? Do we hunker down now? How about now?

Anyway. I’ve been fetching groceries for both households, as seldom as possible. Ross needed a few last items, so this morning I plotted what I’d hoped would be my final expedition into the wilds of the commercial retail jungle.

The last time I went out, I noticed that people have absolutely no idea what six feet means. Either they are in denial, or they have zero sense of distance, or they don’t like being told what to do. I suspect that here in ‘murica, it’s that last one.

Before I left the house this morning, I fantasized about bringing a pool noodle with me to wave around if folks got too close. If it works for bicycles, maybe it would work for people.

No.

People are idiots.

The co-op was fine, almost empty. And then I drove to Costco, arrived ten minutes before opening. The parking lot was filled and a line stretched around the entire building. And these folks were nowhere near six feet apart.

This is what six feet looks like:

I drove into and then directly on out of that parking lot.

Some projections suggest we are outpacing Italy in the spread of the virus. “Of course,” one of my pals suggested, “part of this could be the huge delay in getting adequate testing up and running—but that’s not a comfort. Healthcare workers are sounding the alarm across North America.”

Early today, sipping coffee and gazing into the foggy, quiet morning, I assessed my work in the garden. And then my heart skipped a beat when I noticed a great blue heron just beyond my apple trees, in front of the neighbor’s house.

Ever since I first saw a pileated woodpecker one cold November day at our favorite park, I understood, deeply understood, why the ancients—or anyone, for that matter—would be attracted to augury. Magical.

So of course today I hoped that majestic heron would be a good omen in these strange times.

Instead, it was a distressing two hours, out and about. Since my own father was damaged and unavailable, I am highly invested in keeping alive the father of my children, a dear man who cherishes his sons and our honorary daughter. I don’t begrudge him that trip. But, gosh.

Again this afternoon, unwinding at the same window, I saw a doe gallop past, right down the sidewalk, bold as brass. Deer are common in this city, but I never seen them in my own garden. Large, quiet, alien.

I read about the return of dolphins to the canals in Venice, and the reaction is positive, “nature has hit the reset button.” But, again, early days in the US. We are not quarantined or sheltering-in-place. I’m not ready to see wildlife in the city just yet, not even the floppy-awkward escape of the heron when I tried to sneak out for a photo.

The mind moves slowly in the face of enormous change. Yesterday, it was a number, the possible death rate, the millions of us who could succumb to COVID-19. Yesterday, for four blissful hours I was transported to Mongolia, listening to Rough Magic, a sublimely written memoir. Yesterday, I was deeply satisfied. Content.

Something about the crowds and then that doe unnerved me. Today, possible death-by-virus is attached to names. Sure. Any of us could die any time. But it occurred to me that my brother, HIV-positive and still working with the public, could die. My stepmother, who is seventy-nine this year and who does not think she is at risk, could die. Barbara and Ruth and Lissa, all high-risk. Bruce, who used to press his cheek to mine during the passing of the peace at church. Miss Lola, who works two jobs and cares for her husband with dementia and her grandchildren. All so vulnerable. And they could all go down in one fell swoop.

I have never believed in letting fear control me. But I am not stupid. And I didn’t just fight for my health for two years to now croak or cause the death of someone I love.

So. Maybe I’ll bring the pool noodle next time. Or not. Delivery seems a fine option right now.