One of those indispensable neighborhood shops I visit at least once every few days has been closed for the past two weeks. The young couple that runs it had warned us they’d be taking their vacation after the first, and so I was glad to see their doors open again yesterday, and I stopped in to say hello. The husband, who was sitting behind the counter, greeted me with a little less than his usual cheerful energy. I asked him how their vacation had gone, and he said, rather wanly, “all right, I guess.”

It turns out they both came down with Covid. He hastened to assure me he no longer tested positive. His wife, however, was still not feeling well.

Today the shop is closed. Normally, they are open on Sundays.

As I walked to our local grocery, I passed a man sitting at one of its outdoor tables, talking into a cellphone, asking someone “have you tested yourself today?

We all want to think it’s over, but it’s not. My uncle in North Carolina is down with it. His wife only just recovered. I keep hearing about people’s neighbors, co-workers, friends getting it and getting very sick, people who were vaccinated, who took precautions, even those who have had it before. I’ve heard about people who breezed through earlier bouts with just a cough and a slight fever being miserable and gasping for two weeks, people testing positive ten days after the onset.

I’m wearing masks again when I ride buses or enter any business.