#WhenThisIsOver I’ll Visit My Grandmother and Hold Her Wrinkled Hand
When this is over, I’ll tell my neighbors: I’m so glad to see you. (And I’ll really mean it.) The mother with the two toddler girls at the end of the hallway. The man with the wiry-coated doggie who wags his tail when we share an elevator. The couple who I sometimes hear argue outside my door.
When this is over, I’ll ask for the names of the baristas in the coffee shop across the street from where I live. When I stop by on weekend mornings for an oat milk cortado — and a currant rosemary scone if it’s time for a treat — we won’t be such strangers anymore.
I’ll try to revive my thirsty plants: Aleafa Franklin. Bobby Plant. The unnamed cactus that sits by my cookbooks. And the unnamed succulent that sits by the window. (When this is over, I might even give them names!)
I’ll visit my 94-year-old grandmother. She’s healthy — she stretches each day and takes afternoon walks — but I know I’ve taken her sturdiness for granted. I’ll use an audio recorder to capture our time together. And while we talk, I’ll hold her wrinkled hand. And she’ll tell me “your hand is so soft” and I’ll remind her that her hands are soft, too.
When this is over, I’ll go meet my new niece. I’ll greet her with a gentle hug in the nook of my arm and a kiss on her forehead. And I’ll smile at her tiny toes and furled fingers, when this is over.
Anmargaret Warner is a student in the M.S. Class of 2020 at Columbia University’s Graduate School of Journalism.
