COVID-19, one year later

There are some days that will stick with you, that you remember exactly where you were and who you were when it all happened. A few particular days come to mind for me, approaching the one year anniversary since America began its pandemic shutdowns.

When 9/11 happened, I was in my first week attending a middle school just over the bridge from New York City. I heard the news via my sixth grade Spanish class. A plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. There would be no summer reading group discussion in the afternoon. Our parents would be picking all of us up shortly. At the time, I didn’t even realize the World Trade Center and the Twin Towers were the same thing.

After my parents drove me home in silence, we sat solemnly at the kitchen table for the rest of the afternoon, incredulous at the blazing footage on cable news. As we watched the crashes on repeat, I was trying to comprehend the meaning of the word “terrorism,” a word I had never prioritized for a spelling test or any other sort of studying while growing up.

When the Boston Marathon Bombings happened, it was my first “Marathon Monday” in 2013. I’d moved to the city almost a year ago and was watching the race with awe and joy amid a crowd of earnest day-drinkers and run-loving fans about three miles away from the finish line. One marathoner had started seizing near us and some policemen, who I thought would stop to help her, didn’t. They sprinted past her, flailing, as others came to assist. I remember the policemen looked disoriented but running…