We were having lunch as a family and discussing the possibility of an extension to the quarantine in Argentina, now more than a month old. What would an extension mean for us as we work or study from home, and what it could mean to our food supplies and going out to buy more, and about being safe and not catching the coronavirus.
I said that because the five of us are in such tight quarters it’s important that we don’t get on each other’s nerves. That we help around the house. That we put our clothes away (not tossed on the floor), mop, sweep, vacuum, and do the dishes. Set the table, pitch in with making meals. Unblock the toilet. Flush, even. That we don’t groan, moan, whine, bitch, plead, or call people liars, poo, or rat-bags. That we try not to annoy each other …
“That’s impossible,” the 11-year-old girl said, interrupting me and then turning to stare coldly at her older brother and sister.
Their faces fell.
My wife said, “What we can do is …”
“… use earplugs,” the youngest said.
I laughed. We all did.
Well, not all of us. As all of this transpired, my 14-year-old son sank deeper into his chair, his face dark and grave and worried.
“Are you alright?” I asked.
He looked at me, then at the others, and slowly he started to speak.
“Guys,” he said. “If it comes to it, you know, if it does get worse … then we must promise each other than no matter what happens we will not eat each other.”
