Mourning from afar when everything is virtual

Everything is virtual right now. No physical contact. No hugging. Six feet apart, together.

It’s midday, and I’m writing support, fingers flying across my keyboard, squeezing solace through the keys, across town, where one friend holds virtual vigil for another. My phone is next to me, and as I type, my phone screen lights. It’s a text from my sister. I see the words come up: “Did you hear what’s happening in Nova Scotia today?”

I think for a minute. Maybe there’s a good news story, someone watching out for someone during the COVID19 crisis. Classic Nova Scotia. Then I remember that on the morning news, I heard that someone was shot. One hand typing in Toronto, the other tapping to Nova Scotia: “Busy day. I heard something about a shooting — is that it?” I look from one screen to the other as my sister’s words whoosh across the miles. The screen glows back at me: “Rampage — burnt houses, cars, people shot and killed — Colchester County.”

My fingers hover, suspended between two provinces. I finish the words of encouragement to my friend in Toronto, press send, stop typing altogether. I call up headlines, scroll and scan, reading fast. I turn on the news, and sorrow takes me home to Nova Scotia.

Everything is virtual right now. In my mind, I’m already in the car, heading east on the 401, easing out of Ontario and through Quebec, only stopping to gas up and grab a tea, and then I’m on the road again. I’ve driven this highway so many times, along the St. Lawrence, north to Rivière-du-loup, then dropping down into New Brunswick. I feel the distance begin to close as provinces and miles pile up behind me and the anticipation of salt water air gets stronger, as it always does. Even if it’s virtual, my window’s open and my eyes, scratchy from no sleep, get a little bit brighter as I flash past Fredericton, then Moncton, which gives me pause this time.

I think of the rise in spirits, the exhilaration that always comes as I cross that last provincial border into Nova Scotia, across the flats at Amherst, heading toward Truro, past the sign for Millbrook, dawn breaking out of the dark night, almost home. Today, the names don’t rise ahead of me on the road, but rise from the news and hit me. Wentworth, Truro, Shubenacadie, Debert, Enfield — they hit, and hit again. Though everything is virtual, I duck down into tiny Portapique, to the river and to Cobequid Bay. All changed, and changed forever. Devastation floods in like high tide.

At first, no names are given of the stolen lives. No one knows who or how many have been killed. Only endless headlines of terror, of senseless fires and deaths. Only that it’s very bad and it’s getting worse. I recoil as “Maritime Massacre” blazons across the international news, while in Colchester County, family after family reels in shock, tolling their deaths. Not long after, names are laid tenderly on the victims. Entire communities are forced to shelter in place and embrace the emptiness of grief. Phone lines and computers zing across the province, across the country and beyond. We are all mourning, one pandemic bleeding into another. We are all six feet apart, together, and we must stay the blazes home.

In my mind’s eye, I’m there, standing with you, right beside you, waiting for dawn to break the long night.

Everything is virtual, except death, except grief.