I loved my life. The sleek silver skyscraper office, the impressive title, the hefty salary, the tiny apartment overlooking the river. Then suddenly, in quick succession, three messages put me on a plane heading to a small farm in the country. “All employees are hereby on extended furlough.” “We’re leaving the city while we still can – you should do the same.” “My farm house is empty – want to shelter in place there?” I hardly knew what had hit me, my city, my country, or my poor, bewildered planet.

I arrived at the farm just after dark. It was a warm night and Marci’s housekeeper had opened the windows and turned down the bed. “What is that fragrance?” I thought just before I fell into a troubled slumber. I dreamed I was trying to reach my office, but it was locked down and surrounded by desolate, empty streets.

I’d never lived in the country before. I was a city girl, through and through. My body still hummed and throbbed with the rush of traffic, the conglomeration of languages, the colorful mutterings of cabbies, the wild symphony of Manhattan. How could I survive on a secluded farm?

Morning didn’t so much break, as it tip-toed in. I’ve never experienced such quietness. It was eerie, and more than a little frightening. I was so alone in this self-isolation. Without the comforting chaos of the city, I wasn’t sure I still existed. And yet … there was that heavenly fragrance again. I stumbled to the window and looked out. As far as I could see, a cloud of pink and white, topping row after row of trees. I studied the brochure the housekeeper had kindly left for me. “Apple Acres” – Marci’s ancestral home, farm, and livelihood.

I stepped out onto the spacious balcony into a welcoming pool of morning sun. I watched as a slight breeze teased the branches and blossoms, tugged at one pink bloom and delivered it straight into my outstretched hands.

“Thank you,” I whispered, as I realized that this was the fourth message, the one that would change everything.

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Juma