I have a calendar stuck to the side of my fridge. Most days I scrawl notes across the squares to keep my family’s life in check: Dentist appointment, vet appointment, storytime at the library. But lately, the squares are empty and we’re hunkered down at home, confined by COVID-19.
My daughter, at two and a half, who cannot see the blank calendar and doesn’t care anyway, does not seem to know the difference between now and a month ago. Sometimes at supper she asks, “What are you talking about?” To which we reply, “The world,” or, “Some people who are sick.”
Mostly she’s just ecstatic about picking worms out of the dirt in our backyard, then running over to each of our chickens to hand-feed them, one by one. Last weekend, when 10 turkey vultures soared over the yard, she beamed and squealed then took off across the grass, tilting and charging with arms outstretched, head bent low, “soaring”. If childhood innocence is a cliché, then it’s rooted right in front of me, every day, in moments that blossom, if I’m watching. Everything else falls away.
