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1/
#LoveintheTimeofCOVID
Rolling into the driveway, I see straight into our well-lit kitchen. Your back is to the window, your strong arms stirring something on the cooktop.
I’d texted you before leaving Grady:
Me: “Need anything?”
You: “Nope. Just you.”
Just me.
#LoveintheTimeofCOVID
Rolling into the driveway, I see straight into our well-lit kitchen. Your back is to the window, your strong arms stirring something on the cooktop.
I’d texted you before leaving Grady:
Me: “Need anything?”
You: “Nope. Just you.”
Just me.
2/
I know this drill well. Our dinner time dance: You the one who loves to cook. And me the master of busting suds. (Along with two teenagers who begrudgingly assist with either.)
As my car rolls to a stop, I feel warm inside. This is our extraordinary ordinary love story.
Yep.
I know this drill well. Our dinner time dance: You the one who loves to cook. And me the master of busting suds. (Along with two teenagers who begrudgingly assist with either.)
As my car rolls to a stop, I feel warm inside. This is our extraordinary ordinary love story.
Yep.
3/
The garage door rolls open as I step out of the minivan. It seems to rise in slow motion.
I close my eyes and sigh.
Remember when our kids used to come bounding down the stairs when I got home from the hospital? Grabbing my backpack or groceries? Or just a hug and a kiss?
The garage door rolls open as I step out of the minivan. It seems to rise in slow motion.
I close my eyes and sigh.
Remember when our kids used to come bounding down the stairs when I got home from the hospital? Grabbing my backpack or groceries? Or just a hug and a kiss?
4/
On this day, they don’t. You don’t either.
No, not because teenage cool has robbed me of their unabashed mommy affection. And, no, not because you've forgotten how much I love being lost in your hugs.
It's none of that. You all just want to give me privacy for the ritual.
On this day, they don’t. You don’t either.
No, not because teenage cool has robbed me of their unabashed mommy affection. And, no, not because you've forgotten how much I love being lost in your hugs.
It's none of that. You all just want to give me privacy for the ritual.
5/
The garage closes and the ritual begins.
I step out of the draw string scrub pants and socks. The matching top goes over my head and straight into the washer along with the fleece vest that entangles it.
I start the washer--extra hot--and then I make a mad dash inside.
The garage closes and the ritual begins.
I step out of the draw string scrub pants and socks. The matching top goes over my head and straight into the washer along with the fleece vest that entangles it.
I start the washer--extra hot--and then I make a mad dash inside.
6/
As I scurry up the stairs, I hear voices. Yours is deepest, bellowing orders to our sons to set the table. They aren’t moving fast enough from the tone you use.
Before anyone can say anything to me, I’m already in the shower--extra hot.
Scrubbing and scrubbing.
Yeah.
As I scurry up the stairs, I hear voices. Yours is deepest, bellowing orders to our sons to set the table. They aren’t moving fast enough from the tone you use.
Before anyone can say anything to me, I’m already in the shower--extra hot.
Scrubbing and scrubbing.
Yeah.
7/
I reemerge into the kitchen smelling of antibacterial soap and my favorite lotion. You turn around.
You: “Hey babe.”
Me: “Hey.”
We stand there for a moment, just smiling. And not much more.
You: “How was your day?”
Me: “Not too bad.”
You: “Good.”
We both smile.
I reemerge into the kitchen smelling of antibacterial soap and my favorite lotion. You turn around.
You: “Hey babe.”
Me: “Hey.”
We stand there for a moment, just smiling. And not much more.
You: “How was your day?”
Me: “Not too bad.”
You: “Good.”
We both smile.
8/
I speak to our sons, but my eyes are still fixed on you.
Me: “Hey gents.”
Them: “Hey mom.”
Me: “I’m glad to see you guys.”
Them: “Ok, boomer.”
You shake your head and laugh. I do, too.
All of it is good. It is.
Even being called "a boomer."
I speak to our sons, but my eyes are still fixed on you.
Me: “Hey gents.”
Them: “Hey mom.”
Me: “I’m glad to see you guys.”
Them: “Ok, boomer.”
You shake your head and laugh. I do, too.
All of it is good. It is.
Even being called "a boomer."
9/
The table is set. I watch you as your broad shoulders pull your shirt across your back while placing steaming bowls on the table.
All I can think is this:
How glad I am that you and me are a "we." And how you are my most favorite person in the world.
The table is set. I watch you as your broad shoulders pull your shirt across your back while placing steaming bowls on the table.
All I can think is this:
How glad I am that you and me are a "we." And how you are my most favorite person in the world.
10/
I think of how important you are. Busy, professional, wonderful you. And how, as you always say, “If we are good, these kids are good.”
Which I know is true.
We are now all seated. This other part of our ritual that you insist upon—that we sit and break bread to together.
I think of how important you are. Busy, professional, wonderful you. And how, as you always say, “If we are good, these kids are good.”
Which I know is true.
We are now all seated. This other part of our ritual that you insist upon—that we sit and break bread to together.
11/
You look to our eldest.
You: “Son, bless the table.”
He clasps his hands in front of him. We do the same.
And this? This is unusual. Because normally, we'd lock hands and form an uninterrupted chain. Doing what the elders call “touching and agreeing.”
But not now.
You look to our eldest.
You: “Son, bless the table.”
He clasps his hands in front of him. We do the same.
And this? This is unusual. Because normally, we'd lock hands and form an uninterrupted chain. Doing what the elders call “touching and agreeing.”
But not now.
12/
Someone cracks a joke. We all laugh out loud.
I realized I’d not checked on you.
Me: “How was YOUR day?”
You: “Mine? Good. Especially right at this very moment.”
Me: “Me, too.”
We sit for a beat just staring at one another. Each knowing what the other is thinking.
Someone cracks a joke. We all laugh out loud.
I realized I’d not checked on you.
Me: “How was YOUR day?”
You: “Mine? Good. Especially right at this very moment.”
Me: “Me, too.”
We sit for a beat just staring at one another. Each knowing what the other is thinking.
13/
We're both thinking:
I want to lean over these tacos and kiss you right now.
But we're also thinking:
One of us works in a hospital. Where people have #COVID19. And we both live in a world where people are dying from it.
Even at age 49.
I rub your forearm instead.
We're both thinking:
I want to lean over these tacos and kiss you right now.
But we're also thinking:
One of us works in a hospital. Where people have #COVID19. And we both live in a world where people are dying from it.
Even at age 49.
I rub your forearm instead.
14/
We’re fortunate for our deep connection. And, as of today, our health, too.
This physical distance limbo has been hard, man.
But one day we had to ask ourselves:
What, then, is the point of a perfectly choreographed garage fomite ritual if we don't consider everything?
We’re fortunate for our deep connection. And, as of today, our health, too.
This physical distance limbo has been hard, man.
But one day we had to ask ourselves:
What, then, is the point of a perfectly choreographed garage fomite ritual if we don't consider everything?
15/
Last week I had a dream that Dr. Fauci was in a press conference and pointed over everyone to me.
Me: “Dr. Fauci? Do you kiss your wife right now?”
Then I woke up.
I don't have the answers, man. But here's what I know for sure: I don't want our Taco Tuesdays to end.
Last week I had a dream that Dr. Fauci was in a press conference and pointed over everyone to me.
Me: “Dr. Fauci? Do you kiss your wife right now?”
Then I woke up.
I don't have the answers, man. But here's what I know for sure: I don't want our Taco Tuesdays to end.
