Keeping Still

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.