Last week an elderly lady in my neighbourhood died on the pavement. She was walking her dog when she collapsed. Doctors and paramedics who lived nearby tried to resuscitate her, but it was too late. At some point an elderly man arrived on the scene. “This is my wife,” was all he was able to whisper.

When it became clear that there was nothing that could be done for her, he lay down next to her on the pavement and took her in his arms. It took hours before her body could be removed, but even as it became dark he remained there, holding her in a tight embrace – not wanting to let go.

It was a scene that broke even the hardened medics’ hearts.

Later that night I watched the announcement that the remaining COVID restrictions were all lifted. There was no ceremony, not even a family meeting with the President.  Amidst all the noise of the daily political intrigues, it went almost unnoticed.

Yet, for 729 days we had collectively held our breath as we wondered what this invisible virus would do. For 729 days we mourned as the life we knew - and had taken for granted - disappeared. For 729 days death became a constant companion as millions across the world perished.

Pope Francis in his book “Let us dream” says that any crisis requires us to stop –a “period of stoppage,” he calls it.  The COVID crisis literally stopped the whole world dead in its tracks. For some it meant desperate loneliness (who will forget the video of the old man being hoisted on a cherry picker to see his wife through the window of the home for Alzheimer patients?). Others had to learn to live for months with partners and family members in closer proximity than they would have wished for. Across the world people started to garden, bake and make homebrew.

To quote Dickens, it was “the worst of times, it was the best of times.”

Then last Wednesday at midnight, it was suddenly all over. The next day we dumped the masks and returned to life as if nothing had happened. On Thursday morning early, I watched from my balcony as the steady stream of thousands of car lights on the N1 wormed their way into the city. I couldn’t help but to think back to the same scene two years ago when there were no cars and the city lay eerily silent.

Of course, that came at a huge price for many and we should be deeply thankful that things have improved. However, I was filled with a sense of sadness as I imagined the tired people inside the cars and taxis. I wondered how long their days would be, how many had to leave children behind and whether they even enjoyed their work.

Then, I remembered the elderly man on the pavement the previous evening and how tenderly he held his wife as a lifetime of togetherness came to an end.

If there is one thing that COVID has taught us, it is how short and fragile life is.

As we speed up again, may we remember to take time to be with those we love. May we hold them tight and say, “I love you” frequently because, in a blink of an eye, it can all be over and we will have to let go of those we love.  

To the elderly man who lives in Vredehoek and lost his wife last week:  I have never met you or your wife. I don’t even know your name, but I am sure that your heart is broken at the moment. I realise that it is not much consolation, but I want you to know that you touched me deeply.

The relationship you and your wife clearly shared, reminded me that there are still beautiful and devoted partnerships. It also reminded me of the strength and importance of love. Your example gave me hope in a world where hope has been in short supply.

For that, I thank you and your wife. May your grief be bearable as you go through the rituals of death and may colour return to your life soon.