A walk I shall never forget by Robyn Welsh

Robyn Welsh is a journalist, creative writer and author who lives in central Auckland. Her first non-fiction work is Wired for Sound – the Stebbing History of New Zealand Music (2019). It was released, thankfully before Covid-19 messed up publishers’ launch schedules. But not everything to come out of Covid-19 has been bad and Robyn shares with us an experience that reminds her daily of the power of human kindness.
 
Through the slice of daylight beyond the bedroom curtain, it is the gloomy clouds that set an ominous tone. It is one of those days when I wonder, an hour in, whether I should just slip back into bed and then put my feet back on the ground a second time. To ‘restart’ the day all over again, as a computer would instruct when its worldly inner workings have become skewed. But I don’t and I push on into a day awash with a growing sense of weirdness as the hours tick on. 

Today is Monday March 23, 2020 and New Zealand, as we know it, is progressively shutting down. Call it ‘sign out’, ‘sleep’ or ‘shut down’, as a computer does, this is what our country is doing from the grass to the skies. 

Our government calls it ‘Lockdown’, in response to the Covid-19 pandemic threat to our population of five million. This will happen rapidly in stages. This morning they are calling level 2, dialling down to level 3 this afternoon. Our little moated land mass is on notice that lockdown level 4 will start on Wednesday night at 11.59pm.
 
In a world moving forward, every task has its processes. On this day, businesses of all shapes and sizes are working through lockdown processes, as per lists no-one has ever compiled before. 

The enormity of all this hits me like an icy smack in the face, as I tuck my hands into my jacket pockets and set off on my early morning walk. I need to see what the world, as I know it, looks like as it is coming to an end. I want to do it on foot, slowly and mindfully, just because I can. It is a walk that I shall never forget.
 
It is the rattle of metal that cuts across my vacant train of thought as I cross the road. I look up to see a high viz jacket and a hard hat, downward facing, rattling a gate lock one last time. It is lockdown time on the construction site at the park opposite ours. The lone worker gets a cheery ‘Good morning’ from me, which is what we do around these parts. The eyes beneath the hard hat lift and a youthful voice offers a surprisingly formal ‘Good morning back to you too, ma’am.’
 
He steadies his hand on the tall mesh security gate. That’ll not keep this virus away, I’m thinking, but there is distance between us all the same. Two metres of distance, as I take my first walk and he ticks off his last task.
 
Right now, at this stilled moment in time, I think, ‘We are all one people in this.’ I feel it and I can tell he is feeling it too. It is difficult to know what to say right then beyond a ‘Take care’ or an ‘All the best’.
 
As I wave an acknowledgement to this young man I’ve never met before, he pauses and says: ‘And if you need anything …’ 
 
It is that kind of a day.