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It was hidden beneath a pile of clothes on the bed in the guest room. Under scarves and a robe and the last few ties I wore to work, it poked its colorful head up above a black belt. Gaudy and slightly garish in a colorful geometric pattern, it was a wonder that it could go unnoticed for so long. I guess I’d forgotten about it when the world fell apart however many weeks ago. A new Trina Turk toiletry bag, it had been purchased in the preliminary excitement of planning a trip to New York City that encompassed a weekend at the Plaza Hotel, a couple of shows on and off Broadway, and, most preciously and importantly, time with some good friends. I uncovered it on a recent rainy morning and was hit with a wave of unexpected emotion.

It looked so sad and forlorn, if an object can appear to have emotions. Still packed with contents selected for a fancy weekend, it sat with its mouth zipped close, unwilling to even whisper of its secrets, unable to utter the least objection at being entirely underutilized. I paused, suddenly feeling too exhausted to stand, but the bed was too messy to sit upon, so I stood there, on the verge of tears and not quite knowing why.

Maybe I was in a state of shock.

Maybe some part of me knew I wouldn’t be able to handle the reality of what the current state of the world meant, or the dark possibility of what it might mean for our future.

Maybe I was genuinely ok with it and the meditation I was doing was keeping me calm.

Maybe it was a little of all of those things.

But when I saw that silly new toiletry bag, something wrenched in my stomach. It was like the sad half of a doughnut that I found on a plate on my grandmother’s kitchen table after she went to the hospital. I had to get some of her things from the empty apartment when I found the little doughnut: an act of life, so mundane and yet so poignant, frozen in mid-motion.

I stopped still, like I did back then, arrested by the sorry sight of this embodiment of dashed hopes and dreams, of a stalled and stunted moment of our lives, instantly ended and canceled and all those words that only ever lead to regret and sorrow.

Picking up the little bag, I unzipped it. There it was ~ my frivolous life put on hold, or perhaps snuffed out forever, at least in the ways and manners to which we have become so happily accustomed. A small bar of rose-scented soap from the Beekman Boys, to bring a bit of decadence to the hotel shower. A full-size tube of face wash, because there was only enough left for a few more uses ~ I was going to leave it at the hotel for a lighter trip back. A small vial of allergy pills ~ the first of the season, and always exciting to begin again because it meant better weather was on the way. A tiny glass sample bottle of Tom Ford’s ‘Oud Fleur’ in case I wanted to add that on a wrist. (My main fragrance was going to be ‘Straight to Heaven’ by Kilian.) All those plans came rushing back and a wave of sorrow washed over me.

It’s stunning how our brains work to protect us, but eventually those protection devices are removed for us to deal with things directly. It felt like it was time to mourn.

That night, Andy picks up a dinner from Yono’s ~ they are doing a one-night take-out special of Indonesian comfort food ~ bakmi goreng. When at last he arrives home, I dive into it, and as delicious as it is, I pause in my enjoyment and think of Yono’s family doing all they know how to do ~ helping and bringing joy to people through food and merriment ~ it’s what they have done for years ~ and I’m struck with grief that we are not sitting in one of their restaurants, surrounded by other people laughing and celebrating and eating good food. I realize how much of the human experience we are losing every day.

I want to rage at the world. At the leader of our country who allowed it to get this far. At the stupid people still spreading it through their own selfishness and stupidity. At the people who say too much. At the people who say too little. At the need to blame. At my image in the mirror. At the sparkling coat I never got to wear walking down a staircase of the Plaza Hotel. At my pettiness. At my vanity. At my validity. I want to yell and scream and tear the walls down. I want to weep and cry and wail, thrashing around on the floor, ripping tears from my eyes like a child in the throes of a tantrum.

Mostly, though, I want to mourn, because I know it’s time. This may very well be the new normal for the foreseeable future, and to be ok with that, to embrace it and find new ways of joy, I know I have to go through the sadness and the sorrow and the anger. I have to acknowledge all of those difficult emotions, and the unknowable outcome of what may or may not happen next. We are not good with uncertainty, but that is our reality now. And so, I make motions to grieve.

I mourn that I don’t make plans in the future anymore, like I used to do, in the way that once brought me such profound happiness and excitement and silly exuberance.

I mourn that I can’t see a movie with Skip. I mourn that I can’t spend a weekend in Boston with Kira or in the Cape with JoAnn.

I mourn that I can’t talk to Marline and Sherri and Lorie every morning in the office.

I mourn that Andy and I can’t celebrate our 10th wedding anniversary in Boston.

I mourn the time we have lost with loved ones ~ family and friends and all the big and little events of which we are being robbed.

And so I watch. Seeking out images of comfort. I see Melissa Etheridge and her daughter singing and smiling. I see Dominick Purnomo and his family feeding our city. I see Rufus Wainwright playing the piano in his robe for us. I see the musicians at The Front Porch broadcasting their concerts for FaceBook. I see people Zooming and connecting in whatever way they can. I see my friends teaching their children. I see my Mom taking my Dad for walks and patiently explaining that OTB is closed for a while. I see Andy making me a cup of coffee in the middle of the day when I would normally be at work. I see the people I love finding their way through all of these unknown and untread paths, and I think it might be ok.

We were meant to connect. We were meant to be together. That may be the greatest lesson in all of this, at least for me. Just when I was starting to figure that out, this virus came along and stopped the world, separating and dividing us. At the very moment I was ready to hug and be hugged, we were suddenly told that could be what killed us. It is a frighteningly primal thing, this need to connect and be a part of humanity. I didn’t realize or understand that until it was taken away.

I wish I’d seen it sooner.

More than that, I wish I’ll get to see it again.