Exhausted on my way home from work, I stop for groceries. Normally, I enjoy shopping at this small organic market. Bright peppers, freshly-misted greens, and earthy rainbows of yams bring me closer to nature in my gray suburb. Today, I’m distant from my senses.

After weeks of speculation and debate, the news is beginning to urge people to prepare for a pandemic. I look at my grocery list. Blueberries, almond butter, and frozen pizza won’t suffice.

I stand and stare at a shelf of grapes. I tell myself to keep moving, make a plan, don’t interact. Everything appears so normal, but to me, the unknown is overwhelming.

“Do you know how to open a coconut?”

The question comes from a woman with neatly cropped white hair, red glasses, and a lush, green shopping cart. I answer as honestly and politely as I can, “No.”

She reaches beside me for a young coconut. Closeness is uncomfortable. I’m not sure if I’m worried more for myself or for her. Does she know what’s going on in the world?

“You have to go like this,” she explains. “Shave a little husk off the top, make a hole, and pop it open.” She gestures with slow assurance, as if she holds a sturdy, invisible knife.

“Make sure to get one that’s nice and heavy. Here’s a winner,” she announces, lifting a second coconut and handing it to me. Our hands touch as I try to balance my shopping basket and receive the unexpected coconut.

The object has a gentle weight. It’s satisfying, in this small way, to reconcile expectation and sensation. “You’re right,” I reply. “It’s heavier than it looks.”

“And the water inside is so sweet. I like to add it to my tea.” Briefly, her calm makes me calm. She smiles and turns back to her cart.

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You can find Robert on Instagram at @recoveringmaterialist