Curled up in bed on Christmas night, I try to name this feeling. It’s the letdown of diner coffee that promises to be rich and hot but proves lukewarm and weak. It’s a staticky radio signal.

We gathered on my brother’s porch today. Right away, the kids ran for the backyard where they were, no doubt, violating the rules of touch, wrestling, picking up the littlest ones.

I moved from corner to corner, trying to catch up with my brothers and their wives from six feet away. In the hour we were there, the temperature dropped and the fire pit produced more and more ash.

Only my mom and the babies were maskless. I made a big deal out of it. She kept saying her glasses fog up as if she is the only human who is wearing glasses during the pandemic.

I am the jolly Zoom teacher, staring at a screen of names with no faces trying to make up for all that my ninth graders are missing, playing happy music, telling stupid jokes, cuddling my dogs on camera.

I was at the grocery store on Ridge Avenue not long ago. I heard the familiar voice of the 60-something lady who watches over the self-checkout line. She was jolly, but not just because it’s Christmastime. She was jolly in the spring and in the summer too. She’s probably the type that thinks she’s responsible for lifting the mood of the world.

I am that type too. I am the jolly Zoom teacher, staring at a screen of names with no faces trying to make up for all that my ninth graders are missing, playing happy music, telling stupid jokes, cuddling my dogs on camera.

For me, it’s not about teaching imagery or composition now. It’s about making sure kids want to show up to class. I don’t want to lose anyone. Ninth graders are prone to dropping out in normal times. We have already lost a few this year.

It’s not just on Zoom that I can act like I am responsible for the mood of the world. With similar silliness, I try to fill in all of the gaps left by the pandemic for my daughters. It can be exhausting.

And so it really resonated with me when the jolly checkout lady started laughing uproariously. I could hear her muffled, yet discernibly scratchy voice from the other side of the store, letting all of her shoppers know that the cutest baby she had seen all day had just given her a big smile.

She spends her days with a giant smile behind her mask trying to spread it up into her eyes for her shoppers, but the only chance for a return on her investment is with the babies, and I’ve noticed most of them don’t know what to make of our masked-up faces either.

It’s not just your face that I miss, Philadelphia. It’s your smell. To the gentleman who drives the K bus—I miss the fresh smell of your cologne mixed with the exhaust fumes as I walk by your idling bus. You pace, talking on a phone. I pass by with my dogs, and I can’t smell you, and I can’t see if you are happy or sad. We used to make eye contact. We used to share a nod. But we’ve kind of given up on all of that, haven’t we?

I miss the winter smell of my crowded classroom—wet socks, hot radiator, unwashed coats. I miss the custodian’s vanilla perfume and the confident slip-slap of my principal’s heels. I miss Spring Garden Street during my prep, fried eggs mixed with cigarettes.

I miss the winter smell of my crowded classroom—wet socks, hot radiator, unwashed coats. I miss the custodian’s vanilla perfume and the confident slip-slap of my principal’s heels. I miss Spring Garden Street during my prep, fried eggs mixed with cigarettes.

I miss the ability to coax a smile from a kid whom I’ve asked to stay after class because I noticed a change in her posture and the way she’s staring out the window.

I miss the way I will sometimes connect with a stranger so much that one of us might touch the other’s arm.

I miss not feeling nervous when my kids are wrestling with their cousins, or when my mom won’t keep her mask up. I miss the smell of my mom. I miss noticing the way my dad’s mouth quivers when he feels anything a little too deeply.

Curled up in my bed on Christmas night, I bury my face in Tom’s warm neck, asking him to hold me for longer than usual, wanting his skin and breath to heal my sensory deprivation.

I thank God for him and for this warm bed. I pray for all of the humans, especially those in hospitals, who are trying to heal and be healed through the muffle of the masks. I pray for all of those who are mourning or dying without the touch and smell of those they love.

I imagine the fresh breath of spring and the bursts of flowers and faces that await us.

Maureen Gallagher Boland is a ninth grade English teacher at Parkway Center City Middle College.