My sister-in-law just texted us a video of all of us together at their parents’ house in Florida a year ago. I had whipped up a powerful batch (or two) of margaritas to go with the fish tacos. Longtime close friends of ours, who live in our neighborhood, were also vacationing in the area and came over for dinner. A dance party broke out later in the evening, and some ended up in the pool, three generations represented. That was about two months before these same friends of ours found out their son had leukemia and 11 months before the pandemic hit us. What would I have done if someone had told me these things were going to happen? Dive into the pool and hold my breath underwater for as long as I could?
A year has passed, and their son is holding strong, and I believe he will win this fight. We haven’t yet hit the peak of the coronavirus, but we will hit it and inch our way down the other side. We will rejoin one another in classrooms, parks, beaches, museums, living rooms, and dancefloors. It just feels like I’m holding my breath sometimes.
My Corner of the Village 