The corporations tell me they are “here for me” in “these difficult times.” They also urge me to buy “sassy WFH clothes” and celebratory outfits for the moment when we can finally “venture out again.” Meanwhile, I wander my neighborhood, picking citrus from overhanging trees. I trade a dozen grapefruits for a loaf of banana bread from my neighbor. I exchange a bag of oranges for some bath soaks from a friend. I pay for a facemask from a colleague with cash and a pile of lemons. I wonder what capitalism will look like when this is all over.
— Jennifer Sandlin (Tempe, Arizona)
Coronavirus
Tiny Coronavirus Stories: ‘I cry for humanity’
I’m not afraid to admit that I’m a crier. I get sad and happy at movies, books, and things a lot of people wouldn’t think someone would cry for. But I haven’t cried for this. I refuse. I cry for the friends and home I’ve been sent away from and I shall cry for those who have experienced the same. I will weep for the parents who are having difficulty feeding their children and the kids who won’t get to see their best friends for months. I don’t cry for COVID-19, I cry for humanity.
— Patrick Meadows (Franklin, Tennessee)
Tiny Coronavirus Stories: ‘Love, like air, must be filtered through face masks’
Love, like air, must be filtered through face masks. Hugs hold not people, but danger. Home has become a lifeboat on a sea of time with no safe land in sight. We only hope we have enough supplies. A knock must be ignored until the delivery man is far enough away to safely open the door. A sneeze is an assault. A cough is a weapon of intimidation. The unmasked face is now the dangerous one. One man’s right to gather is more important than another’s right to live.
— Nora Fry (McMinnville, Tennessee)
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Tiny Coronavirus Stories: ‘New snow has fallen’
The virus was transmitted to humans from bats. According to scientists, the pandemic could have been prevented by letting the bats have their territory.
On Easter Day, new snow has fallen. Everything looks open and clean, like new space would have been created outside.
Let’s consider corona as nature’s warning. Ever since the spread of agriculture, men have been conquering new territory, for a horrible price at times.
Snow symbolizes hope. We can still reconsider our relationship to each other, to land, and to other creatures on earth. Let’s leave each the territory they need and deserve.
— Kristjan Urm (Turku, Finland)
Tiny Coronavirus Stories: ‘I never wanted to be here again’
I never wanted to be here ever again. I never wanted to give terrifying power to the words negative and positive again. I never wanted to feel that fear again when you heard a friend was positive, was isolating away, was not being seen, was frightened for their future. I never wanted to see doctors or nurses at a loss again. I never wanted to see a President turn his face away from all that was fact again. I never wanted to experience so much loss. I never wanted to be here again, but… here we are.
— Gary Garrison (Provincetown, Massachusetts)
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Tiny Coronavirus Stories: ‘The gaps feel smaller’
I call my new Indian friends on WhatsApp. We aren’t all busy like we said we would be, and we didn’t expect to still feel so close to each other. We anticipated distance after I finished my residency, but now we know where each other are; all sharing an experience – a common fear. I tell them about my walks, how I swapped peacocks for pheasants and vampire bats for buzzards, how I have to wear jumpers to go outside now. They laugh. We have different concerns, but we can all agree that it’s a good time for making art.
— Grace Gelder, Ironbridge, Shropshire, United Kingdom
Tiny Coronavirus Stories: ‘What will the next generation say?’
We greet each other at the virtual Seder table – in turn, as the video chat allows.
“How are you? Who’s in New York?”
Four generations gather with food and wine, in celebration of our freedom as Jewish people.
An imperative that we continue imagining and building a world where all are free.
An imperative that we continue imagining and building a world where all are free.
We say, “Next year in Jerusalem,” nodding to the Israelities who wandered the desert for forty years after Moses led the liberation.
Now we say, “Next year in person.”
What will the next generation say?
— Julia Levine (New York, New York)
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Tiny Coronavirus Stories: ‘Medical tent in hospital parking lot’
Medical tent in hospital parking lot. Sprayed with sanitizer, given a mask, led to a tent. Doctor in hazmat suit, plastic face guard, riot gear: “We think you have COVID-19 but we don’t have tests.” I say: “My celebrity friend bought one: $3,000.” Nods. A secret back door, X-ray room covered in plastic. After, I stand outside tent, it’s windy in my paper gown. Doctor: “Hospital at home.” Hospital, a new verb. Stoplight next to Paramedic. Honk, gesture, “roll window down!” “What do you need lady?” “THANK YOU!” I shout. His face reconfigures into a grin.
— Jessica Litwak (Petaluma, California)
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Tiny Coronavirus Stories: ‘Care for the space between us’
I was walking on the grass, bored of the same path through the manicured wildness. I cut the corner and it surprised her—not a predictable trajectory. We went left and right, trying to anticipate the other. We bounced side to side for a brief while and I smiled, acknowledging the awkwardness, expressing gratitude for her care for the space between us. The tension broke, we found a way through and past and I wondered, as I walked on, what little or large stresses had made her face so hard until it broke into the warm smile that answered mine.
— Zosia Dowmunt (Cardiff, Wales)
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Tiny Coronavirus Stories: ‘Marooned midway, on a tiny island’
Borders snap shut ahead of me in Greenland and behind me in Svalbard. I find myself marooned midway, on a tiny island in the North Sea. Kindly locals let me stay in the lighthouse keeper’s quarters and ask me to self-isolate. I’m guessing the light’s former custodians would laugh at the imposition. Through the (now-automated) lantern’s fresnel lens the world is turned upside down. But there’s no sense of anything amiss, other than a sky curiously free of the usual trans-Atlantic contrails. I redraft my neglected PhD. Maybe Slow Travel is just what the doctor ordered?
— Adam Sébire (Utsira Lighthouse, Norway)
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