Want to hear something crazy? I say, sliding into the corner booth. Morgen is in his dorm phase!
I haven’t seen my friend Nicole in months, so we meet on a sunny afternoon for Avacado-Toast in a sleepy lake town. I wear jeans. We split an order. She sips her chamomile tea. We chat for hours – book progress, travel plans, the kids. When the check comes, she asks what I think about this whole COVID thing.
It’s not a big deal, right? she says. Nothing to worry about?
By the time I’m home, the schools have announced early dismissal and the great shutdown begins. It would be the last lunch we’d share for the year, and longer.
—
But today, it is sunny and cool. The girls brought us dinner, a lasagna from Caputo's. I’ve been rocking a 3-month old baby boy as he sleeps on my chest, his fingers curled and holding tight to something I cannot know.
How’s the baby? I chime. Is he asleep? Can I hold him?
I’ve wondered before what I’ll tell him about the year he was born, about the time everyone pulled away, into their homes and their choices and their selves. About how, a March ago, on a morning like today, the world shut its door, held its breath, and we watched it all happen through windows opened wide.
I wonder how long it might be before we find the words to speak about it with voices unmasked.
Not yet, I think. When he wakes, is what they say.
