The cemetery was golden, green, and gray—the colors of October in Massachusetts—and the mourners were dressed in black. It looked like something from a film, quiet and somber. But instead of huddled groups, we were spread out awkwardly, our chapped hands shoved in pockets and our faces obscured with fabric masks. Few people cried, though there were some misted glasses. For the most part, we weren’t terribly sad. We were happy to be with each other, grateful to have this day together, to be able to bury my grandmother next to her husband, to be able to stand under the maples and oaks and to say goodbye. So many people weren’t afforded this melancholy joy, so many people had to go without.
For the past 10 months, I’ve been following the suggested pandemic protocol and spending my time away from family and friends. When I look back on this year, it’s amazing how much the days bleed together. The rise and fall rhythms of workweek and weekend, on hours and off, sunlit and moonlit, have all blurred together into a stream of sameness. I remember there was snow early on, but was it March or April, I couldn’t tell you. I do remember when my daughter took her first steps—June, I think?—and I remember the day I went for my first swim of the season—April, it was terribly cold—but other than that, my hindsight is fogged, blurred by repetition. The funeral stands out like a glint of metal in the sand, unexpected treasure.
I used to dread holidays and gatherings. I’m a bit of a loner by disposition, and I’ve never been one for weddings or raucous birthday parties. I don’t think I understood, before the pandemic, why we need so many “special days.” I rather smugly thought I had moved beyond that desire, as though finding contentment in the patterns of the everyday meant I was more evolved than my peers with their birthday weeks and monthly anniversaries. But I see now the value that events serve as landmarks in the vast terrain of memory. They feel real and solid against the soft pull of routine. I read once that people built cairns in snowy Iceland to keep travelers from wandering off of cliffs in bad weather. This year has been full of metaphorical bad weather, and I find myself grateful for my cairns, however shoddily built they may seem.
At the beginning of the pandemic, I focused on creating daily rituals and healthy habits. All of my usual markers of time had gone. My yoga studio—where I spent hours every Monday, Thursday, and Sunday—had closed down. My husband was no longer leaving the house to teach and my daughter was no longer able to attend daycare. Every day, we were at home, a never-ending weekend with never-ending chores. To combat this feeling of sudden loss and the rising swell of dread, I downloaded an app that let me create a daily checklist for the things I deemed essential. Every day, I pledged, I would eat one meal of raw fruits and vegetables, meditate for at least a few minutes, practice 15 minutes of yoga, take the dogs for a walk, read a book with my daughter, and clean a nebulously identified “something” (this is the box that missed the most ticks). I’ve suffered from anxiety and depression for as long as I can remember, so my list was informed by decades of surviving black moods and big sads. I knew what it took to get through a period of darkness, but I wasn’t prepared for how, when one repeats the same tasks, day in, day out, with little variation, time begins to disintegrate. I knew how to fall apart emotionally, but I wasn’t prepared for this.