One day, people will spill out of their homes like the first warm day in spring after an eternity of winter. We will go to our favorite places or to no place in particular. But we will go. Kids will bust out the door to play with their friends, and the playgrounds will be full and noisy again.
We will hold our funerals and say our pent-up, plaintive goodbyes, remembering our loved ones when they were full of life and times were normal. We will grieve for victims we know and others we've never met and say a private thank you to the health care heroes who saved so many others and the "essential" (no kidding) workers who got us through this.
We will visit our loved ones in institutions and hold our backlogged birthday parties, family reunions, block parties and one-on-one meetups with our friends. We will look for our favorite restaurants and hope they're still there.
We will resume our commutes — not minding the delays — and be grateful for the presence of our workmates. We will return to our volunteer work, bringing cheer to hospitals, food shelves and group homes.
And some of us will have to start over.
We will linger in the grocery aisles, leisurely choosing our bananas with just the right shade of yellow, bump into each other and not care. And we will do it without bothering to make an exhaustive list of what we'll need in the next couple of weeks.
Our places of worship will fill up with people and fervent song.
One day, "Play ball!" will ring out and the smell of hot dogs will be in the air. Parents will cheer at their kids' games and resume conversations with other parents that started in a different season.