The three-and-a-half year old tells the almost-two-year-old a story, and gets him an apple from the fridge, while we shower, which is also the time we talk.
Turkey is spiking, 50,000 cases and over 900 deaths in the past month.
My grandmother, who is 90, looks out the window of her Wisconsin nursing home room, surrounded by her most valuable possessions, her bed made without a ripple.
Refrigerated trucks idle outside New York hospitals.
Pink mountain! My daughter runs full speed from her room, almost falling, bringing the news: out her window, sunlight reflects off clouds.
Now there is community transmission in Juneau, a new term for everyone, plus at least one case in the prison, where the luxury of distancing is not afforded.
I go to the window. The mountain is indeed pink, and it makes me proud of my kid and of myself for noticing, caring, existing.