I see my kids staring out of the window. The longing in their eyes hurts. I look away

What do I hear?

You must be joking.

Why don’t you ask what I see? I can tell you what I see. I see a line of people outside the grocery store stretching down the block. There’s a light drizzle. People’s brows are pulled down, their collars pulled up. No one is smiling.

I see my kids riding down one half of the block, the neighbor’s kids riding down the other half. As if there’s an invisible border between two countries that suddenly sprung up on the sidewalk, they stop as they meet in the middle and immediately turn around.

I see two older teens in white shirts and black pants. The first is behind a table at one end of a driveway. He’s standing and gesturing in a manner that connects him to thousands of men over hundreds of years who have raised their voices and moved their hands in that same way. The other one has his back to me, seated behind a shtender at the other end of the driveway. They both have gemaras in front of them. I smile.

I see the shul down the block, where my husband and kids daven. The lights have been off for an awfully long time. It looks lonely. It must be lonely.

I am lonely.

I see masks and gloves, guarding the faces of those who pass, strolling, jogging, walking dogs. Other masks discarded in the street, the new litter of New York City.

I see my kids staring out of the window. The longing in their eyes hurts. I look away.