I remember early March. We had nosebleed tickets to the Final Four in Atlanta. I reassured my son: They’ll never cancel it. Surely not.
I remember our county’s first confirmed COVID-19 case. I remember the empty toilet paper aisle at Publix. I remember the jokes we told ourselves.
“We’ve got enough booze for either the apocalypse,” one friend said, “or a Sewanee wedding.”
People began to open doors with their sleeves. I wore latex gloves to pump gas.
No one had any idea what was coming.