“Too far, too high,” I tell myself angrily. My one escape, climbing down the apple tree just outside the attic window, is obviously impossible. I just want to visit my friend Marta. But my weird parents won’t let me go anywhere because of this stupid “social distancing”. Who cares about a virus? I want to have a life!

I slump against an old wooden chest, idly tracing the initials carved into the lid. “GG loves B” enclosed in a heart. Who cares about some long-ago strangers? Still, I don’t have anything else to do, so I open the lid. In among the musty old clothes and photo albums, I find packet after packet of letters. I’m so bored, I grab the first letter and start reading.

“Gigi, I’m so bored! Everyone’s talking about the stupid flu! I made it through the war, and all I want to do is come see you. But now they say you’re under quarantine. No fun. Love – Bobby” The letter is dated 1918, but except for the war bit, I could have written this letter yesterday. I find Gigi’s answer.

“Bobby – stay away. My little sister Anna’s sick, but there’s no ice for her fever. Ma’s letting us go without stockings on account of the heat. There’s not much food – no gas for the lamps. It’s real bad. Your letter was many weeks coming. Are you still alive? Love – Gigi”

I read letter after letter. When Anna died, Gigi poured out her heart in letters she never sent; mail delivery had stopped. I think about my own little sister Nina, in her air-conditioned room, chatting on Zoom. I remember last night’s awesome dinner, and how it’s kind of nice to have the whole family around the table for a change.

At the bottom of the chest is a framed newspaper clipping. “Miss Georgianna Gregory and Mr. Robert Fischer were joined in happy wedlock …” They made it. And by sheltering at home, so will we. I gently replace the letters,and blow a kiss to the pink-blossomed tree outside the window. By autumn, there will be apples.

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Juma