Saturday, February 20th, 2021

I sit on a bench outside the House of a Hundred Grandmothers. Finding my vaccination certificate in my shoulder bag takes a while. It is, of course, where I put things that I can’t misplace. I need to have everything organized. This is the first time in months that family members have been able to visit residents. I make sure my mask is on correctly and head to the guard’s desk. I present my certificate. “Who are you visiting?” I tell him. “And you are?” I tell him. He pulls out a log book and writes the information down. He gets my name wrong, but it’ll be clear who it was. He brandishes another form and asks me something. I don’t understand him. “OK. You may go to the apartment.” The rules are strict. I must go directly there. I can’t pause in the halls. I must avoid residents other than my family. I can’t take an elevator with anyone else in it. I head straight there. I notice a few changes on the way. The big fish tank is gone. They’ve cleared out some clutter in the atrium with the trees. The lights seem brighter. I get up to the apartment and knock with my usual rhythm. They know it’s me anyway, but the pattern is a habit. I go in. My family is there. Normally, I get a glass of water when I get there, but family members are now not allowed to eat and drink while visiting. Our masks must stay on. We sit and talk for a couple of hours. It’s good to be back.