Fireflies

During that terrible lockdown summer I rescued plants from shuttered businesses nearby, pulled them into the sun by their shrugging vines. I planted the tree bed in front of my building with dark green and purple bramble and watched as it grew thicker and greener, as it blossomed white.

I swept the empty street twice a day, from corner to corner, once at four o’clock, when I opened the outdoor dining area of the bar that I own, across the street from my apartment building, and again when I broke it all down and closed at 11. I liked sweeping the street. It felt like a glimpse at infinity, because no matter how much trash I swept up, there was always more. I swept up endless masks and gloves, chicken bones, bottle caps, shards of glass, green and brown and clear. And paper—wrappers, bags, cardboard, cups—so thick, it paved the road.

My husband left in June, fleeing home to Italy out of concern for his parents. Italy was hit hard, harder than New York, and he said they needed help. But now it’s September, and I am afraid he will never come back, even though he says he will, even though he says life is hard right now, but everything will be okay. Well, how does he know? He isn’t here. He doesn’t have to see my mother dying from an incurable disease. See our daughter, drawn like a moth to the light of her cellphone. She scowls at me when I make her Zoom into school. When I take her phone and hide it.

Life is hard right now, but everything will be okay. I repeat his words at the top of the stairs after a dizzying climb to our fourth-floor apartment. I repeat his words for balance. If I let the other thoughts take hold, they will tip me backwards, pulling me down those same stairs. Plummeting. Into darkness.

I am dizzy because on the way up I hammered my fist on my head. Above the right eye, by my temple. I banged my head hard against the wall, too. That was on the third floor—empty now, with the neighbor away, so no one could see. No one saw. And now my head aches as if it’s split, and I think: Why not keep going? But the flowers on the street still need water. And who will take care of my mother? Who will watch over the girl? These thoughts are not quite enough to make me want to live, but they tip me forward, land my key in the slot. The door swings open. I pretend everything’s fine. Have you done your homework? She is gleeful, her eyes a happy blue. My counterweight. You bought me popsicles? I love popsicles. Thank you, Mama. And I am suddenly glad I didn’t topple down the stairs. What a mess that would have been: scattered groceries, paper bag, me. An infinite mess. The girl’s own dark-papered street.

I am not handling this well. I am the exact opposite of grace under pressure. I am panic. I am complicit. I am failed. And perhaps now brain damaged, too. Am I? I wonder this, thinking of my mother’s illness. She has a neurological disease called progressive supranuclear palsy. The tau in her brain has built up and hardened. Tau is a protein. Our brains make it daily, or so her neurologist told me. But in her head it’s gone wrong and builds up like plaque over teeth, corroding the delicate strands of processes and memories and knowing.

When I began to learn about the disease, the information seemed just like the endless pile of clutter on the street. No matter how much I read, there was always something more. And whatever I did manage to learn—whatever piece of information I managed to digest—was back in my way again the next day, an obstacle, indecipherable. It was all too much to understand. Too immense to even fathom. It was infinite. Chaos. Just like her brain. Like the street. Like, could it be, my thoughts? My life? The world? Probably. I should back up. Start over. If only I could, I can’t help but think over and over, I’d have chosen a different path. Law school? Accounting? Could that have unlocked a different future? But I am diverting again, circling, veering off course and off topic. I should start over. I should be more clear.

Like everyone else, I was concerned about that far-off threat poised to invade our lives all those months ago. I shouldn’t say invade, because it didn’t seem that bad, not like a war or a drought or even a crisis. A virus just seemed more like a slow-moving, circling annoyance building up at the corners of life, making subways tricky, bodies weak. It didn’t seem like such a big deal.

And when the mayor ordered bars and restaurants closed, I wasn’t surprised. I figured a two- or three-week break might be restful. Might even be fun. Necessary. I should back up further at this juncture to point out that owning a small business is hard. And it continues to get harder year after year. As commercial rent skyrockets, as payroll increases, as costs soar—for insurance, utilities, subscriptions, goods—my stress has increased and my salary has decreased. By now it is nothing, but even before the lockdown, it was low. Low but worth it, I thought, for that is the price of freedom. I don’t have to clock in or answer to anyone or be on time, if I don’t want. I don’t have to be smart or pretty. I don’t even have to brush my hair. I can just be myself, and be always right, even if I’m just slinging drinks and sweeping streets. I loved my life. I felt free. I felt in control. That sounds funny now. It sounds ridiculous.