The Third

We had an exhausting weekend— that spilled over into Monday and Tuesday— of recovering from Covid. I feel bad for whoever says that having Covid is just like having a cold because they must have some really messed up colds. For me, it’s like someone replaced my core with some cold, mushy celery or like I have some sort of heat-sucking mold lining my insides from the back of my throat all the way down through.

The uncertainty I alluded to in the previous post, as to whether or not we all had Covid, lasted longer than I’d anticipated. The tests we ordered were delayed in their delivery. I was reminded of a time when the tests were super easy to get. Especially if you had kids in school. Their backpacks came home stuffed with the damn things. We were taking tests “just in case” because it was better than letting them expire unused. We even tried to give one to the dog to see what would happen. She tested positive for Covid K9-teen. (oh my god I’m so sorry I made you read that.)

These days, unless we happen to have some on hand (and they haven’t expired), we’re stuck paying and waiting a few days to find out how long we’re supposed to put our lives on hold before we can rejoin society, guilt-free. 

But now we’ve made it. We’ve gotten the “all clear.” We’re a week behind the rest of the city in returning to school but we’re finally there.

Here!

And I can feel hopelessly regular again. I live for these times of beautiful mundanity, when I slip into the rhythms of regularity. When things are like they are on TV. When my vision for the future is reflected in the event of today. Kids at school. My wife is at work. I’m writing. The dog is napping next to me. I can hear the kittens playing. It’s a classic moment. It’s the opening scene of a sitcom. It’s the base level of life before the action begins. It’s what the characters return to when the story is over. It doesn’t last long. It can’t last long. Just a moment you hope gets to go into syndication.

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