THIS IS HOW THE WORLD ENDS
I don’t remember when the first case of coronavirus was confirmed. I don’t remember when it first appeared in the news. I don’t remember when it first hit the United States. But I’ll never forget the day I realized this wasn’t just another passing fad, that this virus was here to stay. March 22, 2020.
It was the beginning of my spring break, and I was driving to Port Huron, Michigan. The coronavirus had been circulating in the news for a couple months at this point, but I thought things would die down again soon. I figured at the going rate of news, no catastrophes lasted longer than a couple months. But things really started heating up a few days before my trip. Slowly, state by state, the world went into lockdown –businesses were shutting down, children were sent home from school, people were shutting themselves up in their homes, and the downtown streets of Asheville looked more and more like the boarded up, abandoned scenery of some sad, post-apocalyptic movie.
I planned the trip at the beginning of March, deciding that I needed to have a little “me time” with all the stress from school and work and life in general. I figured Michigan would be a nice vacation destination. I had never been there before, despite the fact that my mom was born in Detroit and raised in the small town of Pickney for the first half of her childhood.
Port Huron may seem like an odd destination (I mean, I’d never heard of it before) but it seemed perfect. It’s nestled just north of Detroit on the coast of Lake Huron at the opening of the Saint Clair River, and my hotel sat right on the shore. The hotel was in the shape of a horseshoe, with all the interior rooms offering a picturesque view of the river and the Blue Water Bridge. I thought it would be nice to finally see one of the Great Lakes, to wake up with a view of the water, and to see the place my mom once called home. Plus, it was the closest state with recreational marijuana.
But I didn’t expect everything to suddenly shut down. I arrived at my hotel to find a near-empty parking lot and a deserted lobby. Everything was closed, so all my plans were thrown out the window. I wanted to drive up and down the coast of Lake Huron and visit all the historical lighthouses and local restaurants. But everything was closed, and suddenly there was nowhere to go.
So instead, I got baked and watched the world slowly end.
* * *
I didn’t expect it to snow in late-March, but that’s what I awoke to my first morning in Michigan. Thankfully, on my way into the state I made a pitstop in Ann Arbor to visit my first marijuana dispensary – such a beautiful place – so I was all set for the day. No need to drive anywhere.
With my new handy-dandy vape pen in hand, I slipped into a heavy layering of clothes and stepped off my first-floor deck onto the freshly fallen snow. I walked across the quiet, encircled courtyard, over the train tracks hosting the stationary train car in front of the Thomas Edison Depot Museum, across the icy two-lane road, and there I was on the river.
The riverside walkway extended no more than a mile or so in both directions. To my left was the bridge connecting the U.S. and Canada, and just past that the sidewalk ended in a park full of historical artifacts and artistic sculptures. To my right was a permanently docked fishing vessel that now functioned as an interactive museum (of course, it was closed) and another park full of towering sculptures.
I walked up and down the river, not really sure where to go or what to do. I tried to ignore the blasting wind as it whipped past my face and clawed at the front of my clothes. Walking north towards the mouth of the lake was especially difficult, as the wind followed the rivers current and blasted my body with full force. I occasionally ducked behind large pillars to shield myself from the wind. They were odd structures meant to signal passing vessels on the water, like mini lighthouses. They were my biggest comfort from the freezing air of that first morning.
To distract my mind from the freezing wind, I watched the people around me. There weren’t many people walking outside, but the riverside parking lots were lined with cars. I saw people sitting in their cars, cozy and snug with their heaters on full blast.
Some looked to be on their lunch breaks with nowhere else to go, just eating pre-packaged food as they stared out over the water. It seemed like the perfect place really, especially when no restaurants were open, and when it was far too cold to enjoy eating in the fresh air on a park bench.
Others had fishing rigs attached to the railing, and watched from their cars. I thought it looked pretty lazy, but smart. Who’d want to stand out in the cold waiting for the miniscule chance something would tug on their line? Instead, they had little bells dangling from the tips of the poles to signal the warm and comfy fishermen.
The few people I passed on the sidewalk took extra steps to avoid me, some even crossing the narrow neighborhood streets to walk on the other side. Social distancing was becoming more prominent as the days went on, and more and more people avoided me. It looked rude, even malicious, in the way they turned away. No eye contact, no wave, no tilt of the head. Everyone just completely ignored those around them. And I was the almighty observer, refusing to avert my gaze and looking on at every person who crossed my path.
I see you, I seemed to say with my eyes. I’m watching, and I’ll never look away.
* * *
​
As the days went on, I spent more and more time walking along the river and getting lost in my own thoughts. I didn’t speak, to others or to myself, but listened to the world around me. I felt like a true artist, one who watches the world silently from the shadows.
When I grew tired of watching my side of the river, I looked across the water and saw more people – Canadians. They seemed more durable to the cold, as I saw much more people walking and biking along their side of the river.
The water, rushing swiftly and deathly below my feet, was all that separated us. I wondered if anyone ever tried to swim across it. Even in the warmest of summer days, I was sure even one touch of the water sent icy chills throughout the body, numbing every bone and every muscle, dragging the body down to the murky bottom. The water stood between us – two peoples, two cultures – and allowed no one to cross over.
The bridge connected us, but we couldn’t cross the bridge anymore. The signs plastered up and down the highway read: ESSENTIAL TRAVELERS ONLY. EXIT NOW. The pedestrian access booth was closed off and abandoned, hiding in the shadows under the looming bridge.
But I continued to hear the rumbling of semi-trucks and campers crossing the rickety bridge day and night – people working, people going home. I wondered what people did before the bridge came to stand there. And as my thoughts progressed into further recesses of my mind, I started to wonder of a time before the river marked a border between our two countries. Did people always stand here, and look out at strangers on the other shore?
* * *
​
It’s hard to fall asleep by yourself in an unfamiliar place. At least, that’s how I feel. A dark, empty hotel room loomed ominously in front of me whenever I tried to close my eyes.
One night, just on the cusps of sleep, I felt an earth-shattering rumbling. I jumped out of bed and knew that was too loud to be the bridge traffic. Just as I started opening the patio curtain, a loud horn bellowed from the river. Slipping into my jacket and slippers, I stepped outside to see a colossal freighter on the water. Right outside my window, right where I’d been walking for days, right between our two countries, heading towards the bridge and out onto the Great Lake.
I don’t know why who was on the ship, or what they were doing. But it looked important.
The next morning as I was walking along the shore, I spotted a ship out on the lake. Despite how far away it seemed to be, I was sure it was the same freighter that woke me the night before. It sat idle just on the hazy horizon. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was seeing at first. It looked more like a ghost than anything real. It was silent and eerie, like something that signaled impending doom.
The bridge loomed behind me and the American and Canadian flags fluttered high above me. The shoreline park surrounding the flagpoles hosted a number of sculptures dedicated to the lake. There was a bronze woman atop a large boulder. She looked like a mermaid the way she flung herself against the rock, her chest held high as she peered out over the calm water. Beside her stood a giant anchor recovered from some long-lost sunken ship. It was engraved with the details of the drowned vessel, and a prayer for the victims of the Great Lake.
* * *
​
On my final morning in Port Huron, I headed to the river one last time before packing my car and checking out. I wanted to watch the sun rise over the Canadian skyline one final time before returning to my real life back home.
The overwhelming amount of quietude I’d felt the past five days was both frightening and comforting. It was the kind of quietness that leaves you wondering if you can still speak at all, like when you’re stuck in your cozy little apartment for days on end. It felt like I hadn’t spoken to another living soul in days, and I began to talk to myself.
“What am I going to do now?”
My vacation was ending, but the university extended my spring break for a few more weeks. That seemed like too much time. Too much time to just sit and watch the world crumble.
“Everything will be fine.”
I tried to tell myself that, but I was afraid. The infection rate was rising. The death toll was rising. The world was circling the drain, and all I wanted to do was gets stoned and watch the morning sun gleaming off Lake Huron, off the Blue Water Bridge, off the empty buildings. I didn’t want to go home and think about the world ending. But I had to go.
“So, this is how it ends.”
Not with a bang, but with an echoing silence…