Coffee in the Time of Corona
by Elura Nanos
This morning, I filled my coffee mug, and then immediately started to tear up as I realized that I’d just experienced what would be the best part of my day. Not the coffee, you understand. The filling. That’s because during these weird days at home, it’s my husband who sets the coffee brewing. I just show up, fill, and drink. When it’s not end-times, he is off to work early, and I’m my own barista. But our adopted quaran-routine of he-brews-I-pour is the one little duet each day in which there is a predictable hand-off of roles.
That is what I miss.
The machinery of the world. The set-up and break-down. The choreography of the city. The two-step of suburban elementary school drop-off. The way we each do our part to push the world around each day. The dance of stopping into a deli for “the usual” egg sandwich. The “have a great day” shouted to a toll collector. The waves to neighbors who know me, and the nods to strangers who do not.
In this new, static reality, nothing I do is a cue for anyone else. Nothing depends on me hitting my marks. And I am acutely aware of what that means: I no longer matter.
For years, my mother has criticized my extreme propensity to try and do it all; she’s joked, “Elura, the world will go on turning, even if you decline an invitation or miss a day of work.” But right now, the world isn’t turning. There are no invitations or days of work. My very existence is irrelevant to any larger picture, because simply, there is no larger picture. We are relegated to our homes, compartmented into units of immediate family (or, even worse for some, no company at all). We still love and are loved, but that’s not quite the same thing. And I won’t pretend that it is.
Before COVID-19, the world was in perpetual motion around me; like the gears of a clock, people’s movements — big or small — kept the whole intricate thing going. Even the seemingly insignificant interactions did their part to create the supporting scene for my over-scheduled, often-exciting life. The cheerful innocence of a line of preschoolers holding hands as they crossed the street would fold into my consciousness for the day. The flirtatious twinkle in the eye of the accented-parking attendant seemed to carry a song that would stay in my ears. We were all inextricably linked, and that was the fundamental truth on which I based all things. Absent that truth as a foundation, I can’t make sense of anything.
A few months ago, I (finally) saw Hamilton. I confess, I’d been skeptical. Hype always annoys me, and Hamil-hype was some next-level hysteria. But when I emerged from that theater, I was converted. Yes, the story was moving, the performances dazzling, and the music inspiring. But that’s not what did it for me. It was the motion and the interconnectedness of the staging that astounded me. Hamilton is a feat of motion. Nothing — not a breath, a step, a glance — is wasted. Every purposeful movement passes from one performer to the next, dovetailing to create the most beautifully delicate performance engine I’ve ever seen. Each actor showcases their own talents while holding on to a keen awareness of what every other person onstage is doing. That’s how I have always lived. Sometimes it’s my time to shine, sometimes it’s someone else’s. I’m here for all of it, and to me, it all matters.
But not during quarantine.
Now, there is no scene happening around me. The choreography of my days is gone. The machine of the world has seized up, and my movements are restricted and empty. I know there are some people who feel liberated by this new, disconnected state of being; I suppose it can be freeing to feel utterly detached, floating unreservedly in one’s own space, and on one’s own time, without schedule or expectation. That’s just not how I roll, though. I thrive on expectations and crave demands. To me, it’s a full-cast production number or it’s nothing. Connecting with the world is both how and why I am alive.
This separate-but-together bullshit feels like trying to convince a person that a shelf of pantry ingredients is actually a cake.
I’m not buying it, and I wish people would stop trying to sell it.
No amount of good binging or zooming or baking is going to right the universe. Because as humans, we need to be connected to each other. And right now, none of us has what we need.
I am trying to be comforted by the reality of what I know is extreme good fortune. My family is together. We are healthy. We are safe. We have a comfortable home, plenty of food, and strong Wi-Fi. These are not insignificant blessings. Still, I will grip my grief for what has been temporarily lost. I will do that, because when what’s absent returns — and we are once again collectively turning the gears of humanity — I will savor every movement. Until then, I will do my best to enjoy my coffee.
