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Thick plastic separates me from the taxi driver. He speaks with a strong accent, and the plastic muffles the sound so much that we can hardly understand each other. He's taking me home from the airport, where I've just returned from my mother's funeral. She died of COVID a month ago, and with everyone's vaccine schedules this was the earliest we could have a service. When the driver had politely opened the door for me and asked if my trip was for work or pleasure, I didn't even know what to say. I reminded myself that he's from a different culture and language, and it's just small talk after all. But once he was in the driver's seat, it took a lot of shouting and gesticulating through the plastic to get home. A masked funeral, COVID, losing my mom, delivering a eulogy, the awkward reunions with long-lost relatives, all of it is impossible to describe. But something about that plastic was almost as disturbing, and it was hard not to cry.
May 7, 2021