First, a non-apology: I am not sorry that the blog took a little detour for the last few weeks. That story had been buzzing around inside me getting louder and louder and I had to get it out before it made me nuts. If you’re still following, thank you for putting up with the detour.

Yesterday, my husband asked me what I want to do on my birthday, which is fast approaching, although it seemed forever away when we first went into self-isolation.

What do I want to do?

I want to awaken before the sunrise, on a clear blue-sky day, still clean from last night’s rain. I want to go for a walk while the city is awakening, amongst the dog walkers in Central Park, enjoy the birds that I rarely see, the bulb flowers, and that compelling scent of… is it… jasmine? I want to go to yoga or Tai Chi with my class-buddies and then linger over a far-too-long brunch with a friend.

I want to shop my way down to Soho, trying on clothes in different shops, picking up new lipsticks or eye shadows, splurge on my usual haircut and gloss, pick up a nosh at that little Greek bakery. I want a massage, spa-pedicure, and no-polish manicure at the kind of spa that I visit only once a year. Maybe afterwards, I’ll meet a friend at a museum for an hour or two, check in on my favorite pieces and maybe explore something new.

Then I want to go home, get dressed up in my fancy underwear, my favorite dress, heels, and full war-paint and take a cab to an overpriced restaurant. While extremely professional servers bring me dishes of foods that I would never prepare at home at well-timed intervals, accompanied by wine pairings that I didn’t even know existed, we’ll watch the restaurant fill up other diners, wonder what they’re eating, and watch them depart while we take our time. Over dinner, we’ll discuss when to make the rental car reservation for our annual family trip to the lake house, where to go on the big vacation we’re saving up for, whose family we’ll spend Thanksgiving with, and whose family Christmas.

Then I want to take a cab home, kick off my shoes, and fall into bed with a deep dreamless sleep while it rains again outside, clearing the air for the next day.

“Maybe we can order a pizza,” my husband replied.

All that I have and everyone that I love is of the nature of change. I cannot escape their loss. I came here empty-handed and I will leave empty-handed. My actions are my only true possessions; I cannot escape the consequences of my actions; my actions are the path on which I walk.