On deck
- Picnic breakfast
- AfterBite
- Homemade granola
Today, my boys and I were walking on a trail. The property required masks and distancing. Because that’s smart. The bare minimum, really.
The little one rarely resists. He wears the mask, doesn’t complain, and is a general champ about it. The older one chews on it, is chattier, and is more of a close-up connector. It cramps his style, though he knows why we wear them. That they protect the people we love. That this is our small sacrifice in this war.
He turned to me today and started a sentence like a lot of us are right now, “… when this is all over …” and trailed off, like a lot of us are right now. So I said, “Yes, pal?”
“When all this is over,” he cleared his throat, “I want to start a bonfire and burn all the masks. I want to forget.”
But I want him to remember.
To remember this detail of the trauma his generation will carry.
To remember how our custom-made patterned masks were made with love by a friend to keep the rest of our bubble safe.
To remember the sacrifice the leaders of his country—the voters of his country—decided to make of this year (at least) of his childhood because we let that man run the nation into the ground.
To remember how we pushed through the masks to connect with strangers and friends, that we looked in people’s eyes, talked louder than usual, and amped up the hand gestures.
To remember that we sorted out the poor information from the good information to make the best choices.
To remember that some people, even in the face of information and best interests, just will not do the minimum for collective benefit.
To remember that this all could have ended months ago, but didn’t. And won’t for months.
To remember that this is one of the worst times in modern history. And that it could have been worse, but could have been so much better.
To remember that people loved him enough to scare him with the truth, to show him the graphs, to do the experiments to show him why he needed to wear it, even when it sucked.
To remember. To remember it all. To remember, and tell.
“Frame them,” I said. “Keep them, frame them. Keep the memories, keep the stories. Tell people. Tell the story. Do. Not. Forget.”
And then we turned a corner, looked at an amazing oak tree. Dead on one side, verdant on the other. Looking like a choice, a metaphor.
We’re choosing the verdant side. And wearing the masks to get there.
To read something truly amazing about kids and COVID, please read this Esquire piece by Dan Sinker, “To Be a Parent Right Now is to Be a Liar.”