On the outside, I appear as a product of my parents, but inside — deep down — I think I may be turning into my great grandparents.
By the time the Spanish Flu had begun its brutal devastation on the world, all four of my grandparents had been born. But they were young, ranging in age from 3 to 14 years old. Which means it was their parents — people who went by names like Fanny, Fay, Jacob and Joseph — who bore the brunt of its worry. Was that the motivation to move west? Did some instinct, born of a pandemic that killed 5% of the world’s population, change the trajectory of our family? It not only seems plausible, it feels plausible.
When I look at this photograph of my grandfather, at 18 years old, today, what I feel is no longer for him, but for his parents — who I never knew. Three years on from the outset of the Spanish Flu, I’m acutely aware of the relief my great grandparents must have felt at his mere survival. I picture the empty-nesters, perhaps toasting a glass of illegal homemade gin, shakily.
March 10, 2023, three years on from the pandemic.
I’m no longer deeply fearful of the pandemic of 2020, though I’m not blind to its continued existence. Two weeks ago, my neighbor’s brother and his fiancée, flew in from Cambodia, got married and tested positive the next day. I was their…
