I am lying in a tent staring up at the roof. I can hear my
granddaughter singing just outside it. We are in her bedroom. I am tucked in beside a giant tiger and a bunny.
I know there is a basket of books beside me, but I can’t move.
I call out to Ava, “Don’t you want to read a book?”
“Not right now,” she says, “I’m playing.”
In the distance I hear my son. “Ava, you can’t leave Grandma
in the tent! I’m going to come and get her to see the twins if you do.”
At this threat, Ava comes into the tent, crouching down so
that I can see her and explains the game again. I am supposed to be sleeping
and it’s not time to get up yet.
For Ava, this virtual play (I am on the phone in the
FaceTime app) is ordinary. For me, it is surreal, a miracle, terrifying. We know so little about this world that
children are growing up in.
I can get up and empty the dishwasher or put on a load of
wash, keeping my phone nearby to listen for any new instructions, but I lie on
the carpet and imagine myself there. Present. It isn’t difficult, although
perhaps it is the most difficult challenge of this new world. This slowness of
presence when it’s possible to do something else.
I think about the hours and hours spent playing cards with
my brother. Long slow days that wind thick connections that aren’t severed
even by death.
I stay still. It’s not time to get up yet. I listen to Ava
sing.
