I REMEMBER WHEN the pandemic was a novel event, the thing that was happening. My partner and I would urgently flutter around the house. We stocked up on Tylenol, checked our temperatures, traded rumors with the neighbors, and drove across town in search of yeast, toilet paper, and eggs. Our home was filled with the constant sound of handwashing, and at our nightly online meetings, three generations of our family would press faces to screens, trying to reach out to each other for comfort. We mourned those who had died while keeping a glance over our shoulder, sure we were next.

This was long ago. Now corona is just the background while other things happen. We’ve settled in for this long season of mask-wearing and isolation. The dust bunnies in the corners of our house have grown into dust elephants, holding forth