A Personal Essay

Waiting for Cuomo on Earth Day, 2020

Governor Cuomo has become my hero in these leaderless times. I try not to miss his morning briefings. As I click away on a new laptop, a present from my children, I keep one ear on CNN, droning away in the background. The house smells of coffee again, making me conclude my husband must be up. When I focus, I can hear his slow footsteps. Flames crackle, which means he lit a fire in the woodstove. He taps a hard-boiled egg with a spoon. The microwave hums for less than a minute. More footsteps. Cutlery scrapes against the marble counter. “Good morning,” I shout since it’s too early for his hearing aids. I sneak up from behind and wrap my arms around him. Some psychiatrist on TV suggested we touch loved ones during the lockdown. That we should hug every 22 minutes. I do my best to comply. “An NPR reporter said it’s the 50th anniversary of Earth Day,” I tell him. “Not much progress on that front, is there?” he says. “At least we have Greta Thunberg now.” My son was born one day after the founding of Earth Day. I was a young bride then, convinced that the world was moving in the right direction. I open the front door to check the weather and a rush of cold air hits my cheek. At the far end of the yard, treetops sway in the breeze. My Cape Cod garden is bare. I wonder how many of us former hippies will do something for the Earth this morning? My iPhone summons me with its jazzy FaceTime tune. 7-year-old Talia brings her nose to the screen and jerks the phone back at her mother’s rebuke.

“What are you doing?” I ask. “Baking eclairs,” she says. “What are you doing?” “Writing about the senses. Sight, sound, hearing.” Her little sister Emily pops up. “Touch!” “Yes, touch. I wish I could touch you, girls!” “Co-ro-na-virus!” moans Emily who’s 5.

I can see her petulant frown now too. Before signing off, we discuss dandelions. I show them a New Yorker cover with its drawing of an African-American lady blowing dried dandelion seeds. Her puffy bolero looks soft to the touch. These girls, my granddaughters, give me hope during this hopeless time. They belong to Gen Alpha. Their generation will find ways to save the Earth. Outside, the west wind carries the sound of traffic. A car guns its engine. More cars travel along the spine of Cape Cod these days because New Yorkers have fled to the second homes they own here. I hear brakes, followed by a sharp knock at the door. UPS has delivered the 25 pound-bag of organic flour. Local stores have sold out of yeast too. I slip on plastic gloves. We must not let our fingers touch groceries anymore. I wipe them down with disinfectant and hope for the best. Warming my hands on a cup of hot chocolate, I file into the living room for a hit of Cuomo. He says something about how African-Americans are more likely to die of Covid-19. He mentions that they live in the polluted boroughs and get asthma. Toxic chemicals are increasing their risk of death. President Trump’s destruction of the EPA horrifies me. He is so incredibly out of touch with the latest science. Back at my laptop, I compose a Letter to the Editor about body burden and marvel at how many similar letters I have written over the years. I still believe in the power of protest. Speaking up seems even more important now that I’m in my seventies. On television, Cuomo urges making lemonade from lemons. He wants us to use this crisis to create positive change. People are listening all over the country. I hope they get the message.

By Alexandra Grabbe

‘Life’

By Arpa Mukhopadhyay. Arpa is an international visual artist based in Pune, India. She believes that art is the greatest therapy known to mankind and has been painting since the age of six. She is drawn to themes of simplicity, love, and hope. Over the last few years since turning pro, Arpa’s work has been a part of numerous art exhibitions and festivals the world over.