Two

But I want to givey you a hug, she says, her little 3-year-old arms and legs tangled around themselves in bashful nerves. She knows the rules, but she's already standing much too close. I look at her father, and we both already know the answer. When I nod, she throws her arms around my neck and we stand in silence: she perhaps grasping at a normal moment when everything else has been strange around her, me grappling with all the perspective afforded to adults about what new normals might even mean. It is hard to defend oneself against the immediacy of children, how they are still the core of humanity when we have tried to layer protection against it.

The day was beautiful, warm, sunny, the parks teeming with people and a disregard for disease. My skin flushes in patchwork hues across my limbs. I had forgotten what it felt like to live.

May never fails to remind me.