Covid came for us while our attention was elsewhere. Testing insufficient as it circled my daughter’s classroom, shark-like, getting closer.
‘Inevitable’ we say at the school gate, ‘but if it could just hold off a week…’ Trying to schedule our illness around our deadlines. And it sneaks home with us that day or the next, carried in her sweet breath, her cuddles and affection. By Monday it has taken root, my husband first to suspect. Inconclusive, followed by positive. On Tuesday evening he sleeps in the study, holding himself apart for the 24 hours it takes to confirm that it is too late.
‘Thankfully, it’s mild’ we say, throats sore. ‘No worse than a cold.’ Head aching, limbs heavy. Mouth dry, tongue thick and parched; I drink water endlessly.
We work through it. Pushing ourselves to completion, to daily desk hours. We realise what a difference 2 years makes. To our daughters development. Our ability to leave her alone for an hour by herself. She plays, now, for long stretches, inventing her own stories, voiced aloud. Upstairs I am also inventing my own stories, dashing them out line by line in a rush of clicking keys and long periods of silence.
Deliveries of donuts, left at the door by thoughtful friends. Brownies too. Let us eat cake, then, instead of bread. Let the chocolate biscuits mop up the bowls of soup that are all I seem able to produce from my uncleaned kitchen.
And soon we are testing again. Watching, hopeful for just a single line. One by one we regain freedom, an opening door to fresh air and the pre-spring blue-skied sunshine. I am last.
Still waiting.
Lost Amongst The Brambles 