When my sister and I said, on New Year’s Eve, that 2020 might become the start of another Roaring Twenties, it was only partly a joke: It felt like the dawn of something new. She was about to have a child, I was about to move to Canada with my crew of three.
You know how it continued: In mid-March, the distant news of another obscure virus suddenly became personal for all of us. All 7 billion of us. Within a week, borders were closed, suitcases unpacked, life plans undone, doors shut, hugs unlearnt, and lips hidden behind masks. The three of us got stranded for months on islands far removed in time and space: our parents’ homes. This is what it feels like.
