September 24, 2020 39
that I and many others were finally al-
lowed to go to the beach reminded me
that colors, like viruses, could mutate.
That afternoon, it was as if the sky had
become a colossal color- field painting,
with layers upon layers of hues and
shades, pigments and shapes, dipping
into the horizon.
What were these flaming skies trying
to tell us in the midst of our plague? I
took it as a sign that the world is still
very much alive. Aristotle thought that
colors—which he linked to the four
essential elements of earth, water, fire,
and air—came to us directly from the
heavens. Leonardo da Vinci observed
that between shadows are other shad-
ows, a phrase that reminds me of the
Haitian proverb Dèyè mòn gen mòn
(beyond mountains are more moun-
tains), which is something I overheard
my neighbor saying to her younger sis-
ter more than once when I gave them a
ride home from church.
My husband calls from the car to tell
me that a notary friend he spent a half
hour with (both masked) in an office
the day before—the same day that my
neighbor died, the same day my hus-
band was outside watching her body
being taken away—has tested positive
for Covid- 19. The friend is routinely
tested at his job and is asymptomatic.
The friend’s results came back two
weeks after he took the test. For two
weeks, he had been at work. He had
been in close contact with his family.
He came to an office to meet with my
husband, which he wouldn’t have done
had his results come back sooner. This
is where my mind immediately goes: I
hope we don’t all get this thing now. I
hope we’re not all about to die.
My husband’s test is negative, as were
eventually his friend’s family mem-
bers’. My husband paid $75 to get the
results in forty- eight hours, rather than
two weeks. My mind also goes to: How
many people might have caught the
virus and died because someone didn’t
have $75 to pay for a quicker test?
Though I’m glad my husband tested
negative, I find it hard to fully trust the
results. What if it’s a false negative?
According to the local news, 15 percent
of the test results are false negatives.
In the midst of all of this, a wire pops
in my oldest daughter’s braces, cut-
ting into the inside of her cheek. This
requires an emergency run to the or-
thodontist. The terror I feel, imagining
my daughter’s mouth being wide open
while another person pokes inside it,
makes my body shake.
Dental visits are a lot more compli-
cated these days. You drop your child
off at the front door after you’ve both
been grilled about your recent trav-
els and whether anyone in the family
has had a fever, cough, or shortness
of breath. The child’s temperature is
taken before she’s escorted inside by a
masked and shielded dental assistant.
You wait, far away from other par-
ents, on a bench outside, or in your car.
Whenever I think of anyone in my fam-
ily falling ill right now, this is all I think
about: child or adult, they will have to
face every horror alone, without any-
one they know or love nearby.
While waiting for my daughter to
come out of the dentist’s office, I keep
thinking about my neighbor. Since she
died there are always at least half adozen cars parked in front of her house.
My mother- in- law keeps insisting that
we go pay our respects to the family
properly. But I can’t imagine sitting in
my neighbor’s living room, as I have
done a few times before, and drinking
her daughter’s tea right now.
In lieu of flowers, the family asks,
via texts, that donations be made to
a charity my neighbor supported in
Haiti. They also send a Zoom link
for the funeral. My husband and I de-
bate whether to send some restaurant
food over. When my mother died, our
neighbors sent over enough food for
us to eat for weeks, but now we fear
that whoever delivers the large plates
of hot Haitian food might be putting
our neighbor’s family, or themselves,
in danger. My husband delivers a box
of Haitian patties and beverages to my
neighbor’s house instead. On her front
gate is a sign that says, “Please wear a
mask for your safety.”When I sit down at the end of the
week to watch my neighbor’s funeral,
the Zoom link does not work. I don’t
want to text her daughter in the middle
of her mother’s service to ask for the
right code. Maybe we were not meant
to watch, I think. Maybe my neighbor
did not want us to.
That afternoon, while my neighbor
is being buried, some new neighbors,
who have moved to the neighborhood
during the pandemic, blast loud rock
and roll at the highest possible volume,
just as they have nearly every weekend
since they arrived. At first their boom-
ing music seemed defiant and neces-
sary. Some of them are young and theycannot go out and party in one of the
party capitals of the world.
I imagine that they decided to come
to Miami when our governor was still
bragging that, in spite of festivals and
open bars and beaches, our infection
and death rates were minimal. At that
time, people with license plates from
New York—the previous epicenter—
were being stopped by state troopers
at the Florida state line as though they
were smugglers of the virus. My young
neighbors might have been among
those fleeing the virus elsewhere, only
to find that it had followed them here,
at an accelerated pace. The pandemic
has further eliminated even thoughts of
walking to a new neighbor’s door and
introducing yourself, so we may never
find out what brought them to Miami.
As our new neighbors’ loud music
thumps throughout the whole block,
its din the aural equivalent of strobe
lights, my mother-in-law says, “Why
would they not silence that music for
this one day? A neighbor’s pain is the
same as your own. They should be
mourning too.”
I realize they may not know what
has happened, or they could also be
mourning. This might just be their way
of doing it.
A few hours later, in the middle of
the night, yet another ambulance siren
startles me awake. In my groggy state, I
beseech it to keep going past our house,
past our block. Let us have no need for
you to ever stop here again. I walk to
my bedroom window and watch the
ambulance turn, then stop a few blocks
further down. Another neighbor, an-
other friend. Q
— July 30, 2020MFA Publications
Hardcover • $65 • 264 pages • 170 color illustrations
ISBN: 978-0-87846-874-4For more information, visit mfa.org/publications
MFA Publications is the imprint of the Museum of Fine Arts, BostonCy Twombly’s first visit to Italy as a young man ignited a lifelong passion for the ancient
world that is ever present in his art. Taking on classical myths and heroes as personal
guides, he created a psychologically complex dialogue with the visual and literary arts
of antiquity. Through essays by leading scholars and a selection of the artist’s paintings,
drawings, and sculptures alongside ancient works, this book explores the profound and
often enigmatic engagement of Twombly’s art with the world of the past.Christine Kondoleon with Kate Nesin
with contributions by Anne Carson, Jennifer R. Gross, Brooke Holmes, and Mary JacobusCy Twombly | Making Past Present