Until We Meet Again

Often when I board a plane, there is a moment when I find myself entertaining the unpleasant notion of it falling out of the sky. So I check the exits, yes, pay half-attention to the safety video, try to remember how Tom Hanks managed in Cast Away. But there remains the unavoidable question: Have I put myself in danger by taking this trip?

And so it was not long ago, when my husband and I headed to the airport to dance the line between keeping calm and carrying on, and willful denial. Ours was a flight from Toronto to London, and we were armed with an extra bottle of hand sanitizer and a small pack of alcohol swabs (all of the disinfectant wipes having been bought up already). The date was March 7, with England holding the promise of fresh blossoms and green grass and, more importantly, my family. The original purpose of our visit, the London Book Fair, had been cancelled a few days before, and restrictions on large gatherings were tightening. But we still...