The Slimmest of Griefs.

Today, I am republishing a modestly-edited version of an essay from the archives, originally released on April 30, 2020. At the time, we were two months into COVID, marooned in Manhattan, staring out across a landscape of catastrophe. I’d already caught and recovered from a violent strain of the virus, and still, so many unknowns circled us. I did not know when I would next see my family, or spend any meaningful time with anyone outside of our small Shoop party of four. I did not know whether my children would get it, or whether I could get it again. I feared the “long haul COVID” symptoms I was beginning to read about. I had already cried on the phone to my father, capable only of the following admission: “This is hard.” Those were impossibly long and lonely days.

I sometimes feel that we’ve not properly processed that time in our lives — collectively, I mean. One day we were told to stay indoors with no contact with the external world and then, months later, we emerged from that cocoon and began to trepidatiously meet friends in parks, honoring a five-foot gap between us. Then, two years later, “COVID is over,” via some dull press release. It felt as though we were meant to “get over” the wrought culture of fear, of loss, of alienation, of contagion, of guilt without any fanfare.

It’s remarkable, how resilient we are. I, too, nearly forget the agony of those days — the dull, plodding headache kind. And yet there were so many days when the only thing I wanted was to take a Subway downtown to meet my sister for dinner.

I bring this up not to embroil us in the past, and not to reconcile with it, either. I bring this up because sometimes it is important to look at where you’ve been and think, “Huh. I did that. And I made it out the other side. And I celebrated birthdays, and read meaningful books, and kept in touch with my sisters along the way.” There is a fantastic quote in the new Patchett book where she says: “There is no explaining this simple truth about life: you will forget much of it. The painful things you were certain you’d never be able to let go? Now you’re not entirely sure when they happened, while the thrilling parts, the heart-stopping joys, splintered and scattered and became something else.” Another quiet reminder, today, that you are tough. You will find a way to metamorphose through nearly anything life puts in front of you.

Onward!

********

This is what I want:

A Friday night.

Mr. Magpie comes home from work early, around 5, greeted by an exuberant toddler; a bouncy, drooly 10-month-old; a loyal Airedale terrier; and a wife who grows more devoted by the day.

We have been through things together. Children (childbirth…!), home-buying, business-building and business-shuttering, losses, recessions, illnesses, deaths. Most recently, a pandemic, during which I have shaved his head multiple times in the bathtub of our master bathroom, while our 10-month-old son and three-year-old daughter have watched us, entranced. This: the slenderest and most insignificant of intimacies, and yet —

Why have these little nothings occasionally undone me, made me feel alien in my own life?

But — there he will be. Or, there he is. I cannot disguise my irresolution with the future, or conditional, or present tenses in this post, if that tells you anything about the level of uncertainty in which we are living today.

No: there he is.

In his usual way, shockingly unruffled by the day, by the subway, from which he has just emerged. One of the miraculously attractive things about him is that he always looks as though he has just showered. He materializes in the door, unperturbed by Manhattan. His briefcase in hand, his smile ready.

After the usual flurry of greeting — “daddy!” “who’s that, dada?” “dadadadadada!” “hi!” “the mail–” [shrieks, feet padding] “how was your day–” “dada!” “daddy look what I made!” [shrieks, laughter] —

We pour a glass of champagne — because. I am in my bathrobe, having washed and blow-dried my hair just an hour or two earlier, while micro was napping and mini was watching her iPad on my bed, feet from me, our parallel activities occasionally intersecting in conversation:

“Too loud,” she will have occasionally chided, looking up angrily at my blow-dryer. Other times, our exchange will have been punctuated by her laughter at a show. And still others:

“Can I have some wipstick, too, mama?”

I slip into my dress. We clink glasses.

A sitter arrives.

We rush around:

Instructions on formula and bedtime and whether mini may have one or two cookies if she finishes her supper, which I have already placed on the counter, waiting for a quick zap in the microwave:

Buttered orzo, roast chicken, peas — all diced up small for my young son. One of those meals that I know, from the aggregate experience of having prepared every single morsel of food these children have eaten in the past many months, while under quarantine, that they will eat, soundly and without complaint.

Spritzes of perfume. Splintered conversation as we drink sips of champagne, linger in front of the closet mirror, select earrings and belts. Mr. Magpie complaining about what he should wear, tsk-ing me for not letting him know I’d be so dressed up as I slip into an inappropriately formal dress for the occasion —

“Wife!” he yells out, in part playful reproach and in part admiration, as I emerge from the closet in my new dress. His head is cocked, though, so I know it’s more of the latter.

We scurry out the door, kissing foreheads and leaving money for pizza and —

We are into the elevator, and everything feels quiet and hopeful as we run past Edwin at the front door:

“A taxi?”

“No thanks, Edwin!”

“Four minutes til the next 1,” Mr. Magpie informs me, grabbing my hand as we walk-run toward the Subway.

We make that stilted New Yorker small-talk on the train: conversation in shorthand or even in silence, locking eyes, for example, over the man leaning against one of the poles, preventing anyone else from comfortably hanging on without rubbing her fists all over his tweed jacket. Mr. Magpie knows, instinctively, why I am making these eyes, and he rolls his own, and grimaces.

We emerge in TriBeCa, or West Village, maybe — ascending to a restaurant that makes us feel terribly alive and in conversation with the world. We note the discreet maitre d’ and the overlong list of complicated cocktails and the $27 appetizers and —

Mainly —

There is my beloved sister and my brother in law, my cousin and her husband, our dearest friends, my Mr. Magpie. All of us at a table, exchanging small-talk and laughter and the occasional hand squeeze or knowing sigh over a perfect meal in the most romantic of cities (when it wants to be).

The clink of glasses, the swish of dresses as my sister and I walk to the restroom, giggling — always! — over inside jokes that mean nothing to anyone but everything to me, her pretty face lit up by the candle at the sink in the restroom mirror —

Oh! Her face, so familiar to me —

It is the slimmest —

most inconsequential —

Of griefs but —

Ah!

I miss it fiercely, the incandescence of being among people I love, in the embrace of good wine and good food, Mr. Magpie’s arm slung around my shoulder, the way time just slows into a honey trickle of happy conversation and the clank of forks borrowing spears of asparagus on neighboring plates and “could I have another glass, please?”

Surely moments like these will return, but in the pettiest of ways, I find myself grieving their utter irredeemability right now: the lost perfume spritzes, the missing eye rolls over the airhead leaning against the pole on the subway, the absence of clanking glasses, the mirage of my sister’s face in that mirror next to me.

Tout me manque.*

Post Scripts.

*I miss everything.

+The resin of memories.

+Smoke signals — a difficult essay for me to write.

+A fictional story to fall in love with.

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Shopping Break.

+We’re hosting a Mexican-themed dinner party this weekend, and I’m making two paletas (popsicles) for dessert: one chocolate-cinnamon and one lime. I’m using this mold set to make them. Both recipes are from this cookbook!

+A perfect LBD.

+This sweet wool bow jacket for a little girl!

+These might SEEM like a lot but they’re totally wearable! I’m contemplating wearing my feathered set to my dinner party. Just pair with a dressy heel and own it.

+My favorite juice glasses. More of my favorite drinkware here, and I also just discovered this chic set of mini tumblers I’d serve wine out of. 12 for $36!

+This scarf jacket is giving Toteme vibes, for under $150.

+Classic Lacoste sweatshirt for boys, on sale.

+These remind me of my Vibi Venezias, but only $30!

+LOVE this top and skirt set.

+Looking at some new Tracksmith for fall — this top and these shorts.

+We have and love these planters on our back patio.

+Fun scallop-trim shams.

+Cute sherpa vest for a little one — $25!

+Another great cropped, woven cardigan.

+Great gifts for littles.

+My favorite audiobooks.