across the lake. After a decade, it measured more than four feet wide and
three feet tall, one of the biggest nests on the island.
When we arrived on the Vineyard in March of 2020, the nest was
empty. The birds were still warming themselves in the southern hemisphere,
perhaps beginning their pilgrimage back to the island, making their way
over the Caribbean Sea and Florida, continuing north, hugging the
coastline, as a virus, first found in China, made its own explosive journey
through the United States. My husband and I walked around the pole in our
wool hats and parkas, our boots sinking in the marsh. The nest was intact,
unchanged from the previous fall. Even in the bitter air, even with sharp
sticks poking out of every side, it looked strong and stable. Welcoming. We
smiled at each other and talked about the couple’s return. Would we be here
to see it?
—
After the COVID-19 pandemic shuttered New York City, where we lived
most of the year, we decided to quarantine on Martha’s Vineyard with our
two youngest children, then fifteen and twelve. It made sense to move to the
Vineyard; our house there was isolated and it was our favorite place in the
world. The hedge fund where James worked had gone remote, and my legal
work could be done from anywhere.
We arrived on March 15. The island was still firmly in winter, with
temperatures in the thirties, the trees barren, and the light flat. An icy wind
whipped around us as we unloaded the car, unpacking sweaters and boots,
the girls’ textbooks and cellos, one larger than the other. James set up his
home office on a card table in the living room, rising at 4 a.m. to worry over
the markets. He cut three different kinds of wood and built gorgeous fires in
the late afternoon. He made me whiskey sours as the sun set (we believed
reports that whiskey would kill the virus) and locked every door of the
house at night, even though the island’s population was sparse and, like
New York, in lockdown. He seemed proud of his role as father and husband,
nurturing us, protecting us.
