Last night I was in the basement sifting through boxes of memories. My kiddo had texted me from Montana a couple of weeks ago to ask if I could put my hands on a card he’d received for his high school graduation from a friend of his.

So there I am, holding my breath as I pull out old photos. I open a lid of a box to reveal Kiddos’ Thomas the Tank Engine track. Another has favorite books and stuffed animals that couldn’t be parted with. I’m feeling weepy as I reach into a box and pull out first a pair of OshKosh overalls Kiddo wore when he was little, then his tiny Dr. Seuss jammies.
I decide I can either give myself over to the tears and melancholy or I can take a photo and share it with Kiddo and his dad. I spread the overalls and pajamas out on the floor for a picture. As I’m neatening up pants-legs and snapping snaps, my little Bose speaker lets loose a favorite song from Conor Oberst – You Are Your Mother’s Child. The timing of it sends a little jolt through me. I send the pictures.
I go back to the boxes, neatly fold up those memories, and start to tuck the PJ’s and overalls back into their treasure chest. My phone shrieks, making a sound it rarely makes. It feels like when the city’s tornado alarm goes off during a calm and sunny spring day – a foreboding, to be sure. The dread I’d been pushing aside all day consumes me like a house fire eating the living room drapes.
I pick up my phone to see there’s a message from the Executive Office of the Governor reminding me that beginning at midnight on March 24 the state’s citizens are under a Stay Home, Stay Safe order. I let out a raggedy breath. I’m already home – have been and will be. I’d like to say home is the place I feel safe, but not even that’s true. Not anymore.
My phone rings while it’s in my hand. It’s Kiddo calling from the mountains. We talk for a long time.
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