what we don't know

The pool is not going to open, the bird is going to die, we cannot have dinner with your grandparents.
We tell the boys the truth, even if it cries us all to sleep.

We don't know why the bird couldn't fly, we don't know if you'll get to go back to school, we don't know how long our family will need to honor the safety of physical distance, loving folks from far away like their lives depend on it.

We are working our way through the idea of indefinite, just get through the morning, just get through Monday.
We are working our way through what we already have too, food, art supplies, plans. There's a concierge's desk in the dining room, room numbers taped to the doors. Hank has set up a hotel, with a breakfast buffet, an exercise facility and the most cheerful luggage handler you've ever met. There is joy in the improvisation, the simplification, the focus.

I am feeling hopeful, but just underneath that still gnawed at by despair.
Tucker walked around the entire perimeter of the pond twice, hoping for a bite, before he surrendered bait to the birds.
Is the promise of some small possibility even harsher than any certainty?

Anxiety reverberates, a pebble in the pond, and I don't want that to be what the boys feel. We visit uncrowded outdoor spaces, wade in the creek, wave at the grandparents from six feet. We take walks and talk about what we do know, notice shapes in the clouds and nitrile gloves in the street next to thousands of pastel teardrops.