Sunday, March 15, 2020

Letter from the Crescent City


I'm sitting at a coffee shop on Royal Street in the Marigny neighborhood of New Orleans, not far from the French Quarter.  It's 9am on a Sunday.  Aside from me, two people are here, not including the owner and the barista.  It's early, though, for this city.  I asked the owner, Fred, how business was.  "Not bad."  But he's not complacent.  He's sanitizing the hell out of tables and door handles.  Will he shut down?  "I may have to."

1400 miles away, in New York City, my daughter lives.  I was supposed to see her one-woman show last week, but she urged me not to come.  It would make her too anxious to have me there.  I'm 74.  Prime real estate for the virus.  So, I didn't go, missing an event a father shouldn't miss.  I know. There are a lot more serious situations.  Thousands like mine, many much worse.

Do I feel guilty asking the gods to take special care of my daughter, to protect her, and to guard her from harm?

No.

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