I strung white Christmas lights onto our porch Friday—a mere three months after the holiday.
A woman in Montpelier suggested people put them back up. Light in a time of darkness. The idea has resonated with many residents as it appears so many of us are collectively holding our breath. A physician friend did the math: we needed more respirators and masks two months ago.
Time is a funny thing. It is slippery. Stretchy. Undisciplined.
Twelve days ago the world sighed and shook our old house in Utah and rattled my coworkers. What in the world? That felt like last year.
Every morning my three-year-old asks “Am I going to preschool this day?”
He knows that he used to go to school Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Now those days come, and he is still at home with both parents who for some reason don’t have time to play on all the new weekend days. He dumps his Legos onto the kitchen table and builds plastic cities that he destroys moments later. When it’s time for nap he demurs on cleanup.
“It will take a thousand years,” he says.
After nap I take him out for walks along the abandoned logging road behind our house. The creeks are flowing with snowmelt. We fish rocks out of the water with reddened fingers. Some we take home. The rest we toss. There isn’t anything truly special about the ones that make it into his backpack.
“Is it spring yet?” he asks as we stomp through patches of snow.
He waves his walking stick and tells me about his birthday party this summer—all his preschool friends will be there. He wants a chocolate cake with strawberry icing.
I do the math.
“Maybe,” I say.