Saturday, May 2, 2020

On the grassy lot across from my house, a woman presses a selfie stick into the ground. Once it stands on its own, she points her phone at a picnic basket and a child beyond it. She scurries forward and places a soccer ball in line with the basket and child. Coming back, she slides the phone a little higher and takes the shot. Close to the center of town, clothes are scattered near a dumpster and a Give-and-Take box. Whoever left them may have placed them neatly, but someone or something has thrown them about. I think of pulling them together into a coherent pile. I don’t. I worry whether that would be safe with the virus going around. I look at what else is in the box: a brightly colored remote, a Hebrew translation of “Oedipus the King,” and what might be part of a blender. I don’t take anything. At the Heart of the City, I follow a deep repeating gurgling sound. It’s the call of an unusually large baritone pigeon. The bird sees me coming toward it and waddles away. Most of the stores here have handwritten signs. Each says how many customers may be in the store at one time and that everyone must wear masks. Few are open today. Children on scooters roll through the space. One girl has a matching helmet and tutu. At a stone table, two old men play backgammon. They may be closer together than the rules allow. They look as if they’ve been there together for their whole lives. They’re not going to stop now.