make us ever mindful

Ordinarily by late May we'd be picking strawberries, leaving green pulp cartons full to the brim on neighborhood porches.

Now we are home. Now I am an elastic waisted pants enthusiast, tempted to Lysol every bird that lands in our yard. Tempted to perseverate on the infinitesimal difference between the solid business of living and the lurch that could end everything. The virus and the violence and the whole bewildering world.

Time blurs, a long strange ribbon of distraction and attention. Our days are measured in the smallest increments, the first hugs of morning, breakfast, fresh air. Minor things have become infinitely watchable, the way the boys peel a clementine, legs splayed and bellies extravagant. Giant bubbles float above the backyard, peonies tease open and share their perfume, a crimson hooded woodpecker drums a one note symphony on repeat. Back in the day the urge was to keep going, but freed from the oppressiveness of any trajectory I remember to notice.

In addition to the general sense of emergency there is perhaps a second and simultaneous pandemic of frayed nerves and exhaustion. Now is not the time to look away.