he first day we went to the playground it was empty. It was a sweltering Sunday afternoon in the city, and although it was the day before playgrounds in New York officially reopened, someone kind had unbolted the gate. After almost four months of being locked out, my children stood still, staring at the swings as if they’d never seen them before, and eventually ran off to play. This particular playground, surrounded by 30-storey apartment blocks and abutting a school, was latterly one of the busiest in my neighbourhood and if there was something chilling about being the only ones there, it also permitted a delusion: that we, and the city, had changed. The phrase I keep hearing and using myself this week, is, “We can’t go on like this for ever.” It’s one of those statements, like “it is what it is”, and “what are you going to do?” that seeks, in the absence of external causes for cheer, nonetheless to make us feel better. In this case, it is also exculpatory. Infection rates in New York are now the lowest in the US, but elsewhere in the country the virus is surging. After 31,000 deaths in the city, you’d think it wouldn’t be hard to maintain a sense of emergency. The fact is, however, that a lot of us are done, irrespective of data. Cooked, beaten, burnt out, overwhelmed. I don’t care if they swab down the playgrounds every night or not. We can’t go on like this for ever. The dividend from this lack of endurance is supposed to be gratitude; the world and everything in it has been made new. Friends downtown, desperate to sit outside somewhere other than the rusty, 100-year-old fire escapes bolted to the side of their buildings (“Do they ever test these things? They must test these things, right?”), approach open-air restaurant seating as if it was put there by God. For parents, the opening of the playgrounds has gone down like a lottery win. And when the shops finally reopen, how will we be able to stand the excitement? The first time I’m permitted to go and browse bathmats at Target, I’m pretty sure it will give me a thrill to last the rest of my life. On Sunday afternoon, meanwhile, I sat on a bench in the playground, watching my five-year-olds miraculously entertain themselves, and couldn’t believe how much I used to hate playgrounds. The check to this attitude lies in looking elsewhere. We are safe in New York because we are tired of feeling unsafe, while the rest of the world is just reckless. I can’t believe they’re opening the pubs in the UK and don’t understand why anyone in their right minds would go. What is Macron thinking throwing open the schools in France, and why is everyone behaving as if this thing is over? OK, so I didn’t hand-sanitise very thoroughly before eating that bagel, but after three months of lockdown it must be alright. I don’t understand how these two things – we’re safe/we’re not safe – can coexist in my mind, but they do. On Monday afternoon, we went back to the playground. There were a few people in it this time, which only intensified the exhilaration. Other adults to talk to! Actual semi-mingling (top half of the face only). I met the mum of a two-year-old I hadn’t seen before in the park and we had a long conversation about school rezoning that was so heady it was almost libidinous. My kids, on the other hand, seemed at a loss. They recognised a friend from their after-school club and one of my daughters went up shyly to say hi. The boy stood, silently staring from behind his mask, but while his dad gave him a nudge. No conversation or play was forthcoming. I have no idea what to do with any of this. Our behaviours are led by our feelings, which doesn’t seem like a great barometer of safety in the circumstances; on one hand, psychological welfare is real, and if there’s a second wave and more lockdowns there has to have been some release. On the other hand, if that release triggers a surge in the virus – and so it goes on, round and round. Two days after the playgrounds opened, we returned for a third time, and it was busier again, although still at half capacity compared to normal. Huge, prepubescent boys charged around, swerving to avoid the toddlers at the last minute and hogging the slide in a way that reminded me of the awfulness of other people’s kids. After a few minutes, small talk with one of the mum’s felt like a chore. After an hour, I wanted to go home and hassled my kids to leave. I guess there was consolation in this; that everything, even gratitude, will pass.