I was a freshman in college, before I understood how accustomed to the noise around us we become. Moving from a house ten miles outside of a small rural town, into an apartment near a university, and then back home again for the holidays, made me aware of this truth.

At the beginning of the school year I found it difficult to sleep. The sounds of traffic and unknown voices, so close to my window, were completely foreign to my mind. But, eventually, I acclimated to my new environment and presumed I'd have no trouble sleeping when I returned home for the holidays. By then, however, I was so accustomed to the sounds around my apartment, that the silence which enveloped my parents' home was deafening.

*****

Last night I was reminded of this, when something woke me, just before midnight. My legs felt restless, wanting to run, as they haven't been able to for days. And although they certainly didn't help me fall back to sleep, I knew they hadn't interrupted my slumber. It was the deafening sound of small town America being all to quiet under a prescription of social distancing. 

And I suddenly understood why the people of Italy sing from their windows and balconies. My heart aches for them and the people of other nations, already hit harder by this nightmare. The silence of empty streets is temporary, but the silence of loved ones gone is forever.