“Moving Parts”

When Covid-19 first hit in the brisk days leading up to St. Patrick’s Day, I was in denial that the doors to my office would stay locked or that the Holyoke St. Patrick’s Day Parade could ever be canceled. Believing that would force me to believe the Covid-19 virus was real. Now, nearly seven months since we were told it would only be a few weeks, I know it is real. My office remains shuttered to the public and most staff work remotely 50% of the time. And of course, the parade was canceled. 

Initially, I did what I imagine a lot of people did. I tried to learn new things. I read more, cooked more, and walked more. In the first few weeks I tried to teach myself: how to play the guitar (huge fail), Spanish, chess, yoga, and how to perfect my Carbonara sauce which pre-Covid tasted more like scrambled eggs on pasta. (I’m happy to report it now tastes like the luscious creaminess it should taste like). I had time now. Time to do all the things I never had time for before the pandemic. Time, I thought, was on my side.

Not only did I try to learn new things, I also started to shop. It started innocently to avoid other people in the stores mostly, but soon it escalated to buying things I just couldn’t live without. Literally. Gifts I felt I needed just because I was living or, God forbid, could die at any minute. Two of the most unusual items I bought are the same. They are only unusual because they are the same but also very different. 

I quickly bought the Apple watch I had been eying to combat the visions I had of myself sitting in my comfortable recliner eating potato chips with French onion dip, watching every movie ever made, and getting fat. That image ran through my mind on an endless loop so every morning I strapped Apple on, followed by wrist weights and my new camo Asics that I also decided I couldn’t live without, and headed out. After my third walk every day around my small neighborhood, people began to wave at me. Until then, they had only been noisy people who lived near me. The ones with barking dogs, screaming children, and the ever-present loud bass that reverberated my small house. After weeks and months of 10,000 steps a day, I no longer cringed when they came out to wave. My pace no longer quickened when I saw them peeking out, but instead slowed to see if they would open their blinds or back door to throw me a wave or a smile. I began to notice not only people but the sound the morning makes as it wakes up before people. I learned the different songs of birds prevalent in my area and sipped my coconut coffee and listened. I listened to the coos of the mourning doves and the loud squeaky squawk of the Blue Jays that lived in many of the nearby trees. I noticed how many feathers I come across by just looking and I noticed something I had not noticed before — my own heartbeat. 

The world was quiet now. My normally busy street sat peacefully as we all united quietly, and only communicated with a wave or a nod. My trusty Apple watch, the one that motivated me to take two million steps (give or take) didn’t make a sound. It offered encouragement with its “Breathe” and “You can still do it!” reminders but no tick no tock. She too was silent.

This realization led me to my second, slightly more frivolous purchase, a 1940’s men’s Tudor watch by Rolex. I imagined my grandfather would have worn one similar and something about that small comfort made this eighty-year-old watch one I could not live without. 

When it finally arrived from the antique store in Canada that I bought it from, my conflict was immediate. How could I wear two watches and why would I even need one in a time when the entire planet was standing still? I would look ridiculous, I thought to myself, but quickly remembered, no one was looking. 

Most nights sturdy Apple sits silently on her small disc charger lighting up my room with her neon lightning bolt charge symbol. Tudor sleeps with me and ticks loudly and a little aggressively, after he is wound tightly, but carefully. I keep him next to my ear and often fall asleep to the sounds and smells of my grandfather’s house. I breathe in deeply the smells I imagine drifting over me from the Chesapeake Bay where he had an old farmhouse and try to remember his voice, the roughness of his hands, and the feel of his cowboy hat. The tick and tock fade into my own heartbeat and most nights I fall gently to sleep. 

Unlike fancy Apple, Tudor does not keep perfect time. He often lags as if bored with my day and then quickly jumps ahead to catch up. Unlike her, he is fragile. Some mornings the band is curled up awkwardly and each time I wind him I pray it’s not one too many as not to break his fragile stem. 

Apple goes on my right wrist as per the rules of proper Apple watch etiquette while Tudor goes on my left, non-dominant, wrist. On days I don’t want to wear Apple (it happens) I wear Tudor on my right, and he doesn’t seem to mind at all. 

They both remind me that time can be your best friend or your worst enemy. It can heal if we have enough, steal if we don’t, and fly if we aren’t paying close enough attention. We can’t hold the hands of Father Time any more than we can hold the hands of the shadows on the wall that will someday come to meet us all. It was never about what I could learn during Covid, it was much more about what Covid taught me during the strange time that even St. Patrick witnessed. 

Someday, people will look back on our days and ask where 208,000 people went. They will wonder how a virus that could have been contained wasn’t, and they will wonder why so few seemed to care. 

They will ask, where did the children all go? And only Father Time will know the answer. 

Tick tock tick tock.