At the window, you hear the people clapping and cheering, and you join in. You push up the glass and stand tall, feeling thankful for the doctors and nurses and orderlies and custodians. The ambulance drivers, the cafeteria workers, the medics.
At 7:07, you come back “in,” and you think about the conversation that you had earlier in the day, the one in which your brother, a surgeon, told you that he was exposed to the virus in the hospital and was tested. And is fine. But was nervous. And kept it from your mother, who is 83 and would worry. Then you think about your sister-in-law and your nephew and your childhood pal and the poor soul from Mt. Sinai West and the nurses at Elmhurst and you fear for all of them, safe inside your kitchen, children in the next room.