It’s a beautiful April Sunday morning, a day that usually draws a lot of folks outdoors, to ride the bike paths or play in the gardens. But here I sit, weeks away from delivering my first baby and all I can hear from my window is one bird chirping, and by my feet, my dog sleeping.
There’s a certain quiet that’s eerie, uncertain. I am trying to find the calmness in it- -but it keeps answering me with question marks. My dog’s legs move suddenly, anxiously, chasing or being chased, restless even while he sleeps.
It’s the new COVID-19 reality, where the days are long and so are the nights, even for our pets and children. We sleep more. We eat more. Yet we are constantly tired and hungry.
In a country of excess, we find ourselves trying to order basic necessities that we always took for granted, unable to check out. We peer out the window to the local restaurants trying to survive the month on just deliveries and pick-up orders. Unemployment and death tolls grow by the minute and government relief is promised but hard to secure.
But we think forward. We think about next week. Next month. Next year. And no doubt there’s a light growing at the end of the tunnel, beckoning us to be brave and carry on – that this too shall pass.
And there’s plenty to do in the meantime, to make it easier. A humanitarian hope has spread with the virus. Neighbors called on to be heroes, going to work despite the risk to themselves and their families, as they are critical for the community’s care and well-being. Volunteers are passing out bags of food at the pantries. Families are adopting pets more and writing notes of love to nearby nursing homes. Businesses are shifting dramatically from their usual products to deliver masks, ventilators, whatever is needed. Neighbors come out to applaud our healthcare and emergency workers at sunset. We all cross off one more day on the calendar.
It seems like the world’s heart is opening. We are one community, trying to decode this new Coronavirus– knowing we all need to push on– together and with care– to survive. Knowing we are all one and connected. A collective tender heartbeat. A collective need to heal. I’m proud to bring Ava soon into this new world of awareness.
From upstairs, I can hear my husband creating a song list for our at-home delivery in a few weeks. He unbelievably finds songs with Ava’s name. The melodies are drifting down the stairs towards me, surrounding me like a warm blanket. I am forever grateful for his love, thoughtfulness and care, especially now. The bird outside my window is nesting. So are we.