Last March, I visited a senior center in Manhattan on its last day of programming before lockdown forced everything in New York City to a grinding halt. At that point in the pandemic, we were flying blind — elbow-bumping instead of handshaking, but not wearing masks, even in cramped indoor settings.

I rode my bike to DOROT on the Upper West Side with a lump in my throat, fearing that maybe I was an unknowing vector of the virus. (A traveling group of coughing a cappella singers was performing and my fears abated that I'd be the one to get them sick.)

I met a group of women in a weekly memoir class, right as the director broke the news that the center was closing because of the coronavirus.

It came as a blow to the women, especially for Yvonne Rossetti, who was 65 years old at the time.

"I think depression is a killer, and certainly many of us are here because maybe we battle depression," she'd said to the room. "This place is a lifeboat."

"Yes, it is a lifeboat," the women agreed.

As a year went by, I wondered how these women were doing. If they got sick, did they make it through? If they were experiencing that loneliness they'd spoken so fearfully of when I met them that day.