On this same equivalent Thursday last year, I rose early, dressed quickly and left the house. It was the last day of a three-day conference that I had first dreaded but had warmed to because it brought together people I work with but seldom see. We met at a downtown location, and on the last day I went in early so I could take a walk beforehand. 

Though the coronavirus was much on our minds — the bathrooms were mobbed at every break with people obsessively washing their hands — there was much yet we didn’t know. We didn’t wear masks, we didn’t practice social distancing, and we took our lunch in a common room, all 80 or so of us scooping our salads and fruit from common bowls and eating together at small, cocktail-sized tables. 

Since Thursday was the finale, at the end of the day many of us went across the street to a watering hole where we huddled even closer to each other. In retrospect I would kick myself for that, especially when I learned that at least one of the attendees came down with Covid right after the event. 

We knew something was coming, and in fact we learned that day that we would be working remotely the next week, but we could never have known that a year later we would still be hunkered down in our houses and apartments, waiting to resume a normal life we’re not sure will come again.