 I drove to Albany a year ago today for a visit. The day prior, I dismissed my students for Spring Break with my typical warning: don’t do “anything that will show up on the internet.” I didn’t know I would not see them in person again. There was news coverage about the “virus” on the radio as I drove up 95 that Friday morning. Outside of my normal travel persona, I shared a look of unspoken understanding with a stranger in a Maryland rest stop restroom. We stepped to the sink at the same time, shook our heads, and began to vigorously wash and re-wash our hands. The stores were nearing depletion when I arrived later that evening and my hotel was practically empty. A new juice bar had opened near my old apartment and I drove over to try it, but it had already shut down by the time I got there early that Saturday morning. The deacons at church that would normally hug me when I arrived for rehearsal opted for fist bumps. But the kids. They never fail. They ran with no fear to hug me when I walked into the sanctuary where they were practicing. I still remember their faces. I will see them again. At every lunch and dinner I shared with the friends I had come to see, we talked about the unknown thing that was coming. And life of course, peppered with just a touch less of the laughter that is our custom. A touch. We still cut up. Wednesday, I drove back down 95 and counted the number of universities opting to close campus and send students home. My own was in the number by the time I got back to Charlottesville. A year has passed and I think I am different. I am quieter. I have watched so much tv. My house is bigger than I thought it was. I have survived online teaching, personal disappointments, and Covid too. I am very reflective now. I journal again. Today, I pause with some sadness and some gratitude about that bizarre trip to a place I call home. It’s my panniversary. *originally posted on FB March 6, 2021.
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