Our Loss of the Trivial Is No Small Thing

The little things we’re missing during the pandemic add up to a lot

For weeks now, there has been a lot of pretending going on. I have deployed all kinds of pretending exercises to stop the grief I feel I have no right to have — grief for the loss of so many things. Some will come back: museums, sports, sanity. And some won’t: cherished restaurants, canceled milestones, confusion about who or what is essential.

I pretend a bit when I notice the late afternoon light slanting into my apartment, which I never noticed before, and which now seems to announce itself vehemently, radiating a white, blinding blaze. This living room reverse-eclipse happens sometime before the demented White House daily briefing. I pretend that the light burning my eyeballs doesn’t cast an uncanny Midsommar aesthetic across the room, turning my house into a daylight horror set.

The quarantine is now a way of life. It’s an awful way to live; we can agree on that, but there is no alternative. Because — and this is the necessary disclaimer to inoculate against seeming selfish and short-sighted — it’s a matter of life and death. The disclaimer is sincere. I am unequivocal about recognizing the difference between my discomfort, which by virtue of being currently healthy, is luxurious compared to the trauma unfolding around me in New York City. But I also recognize that my pretending is protective, as I know I could join the ranks of the sick, financially ruined, or otherwise permanently damaged at any moment. Covid-19 has unleashed a kind of live-action suspense into our lives that we were mostly unfamiliar with.

Mental gymnastics of this kind are what have stopped me from acknowledging the small things I’m missing. I must grieve these things quietly, so as not to be marked a Trivial Citizen. Years of Catholic school and terrifying confession experiences prepared me for this. It’s no trouble for me to pull an internal lever and access enough hot shame to picture myself as Cersei Lannister, paraded through the streets and pelted with shit slingshots, should anyone find out how profoundly I miss sushi, movie theaters — specifically the costly Alamo Drafthouse and its Thai chili wings — and sampling perfumes at Sephora on all different parts of my body, but then not…