Quarantine

April 26th, 2020.

It happened suddenly. How did it happen?

Did this space, this quarantine, quiet us enough so we had time to remember?

“This is your song,” she said. “I listened to this when I was pregnant and thinking of you.” A phone on the table played the song, amidst dirty dishes and half eaten dinner. She began to cry remembering, and her daughter, 17, at the brink of many a decision for her future life, leaned her head on her mother’s shoulder. 

I cannot un-see this. I cannot forget. Let us not forget—someone loved us before we knew how to love back.

And then, she played “Hey Jude” for her son who holds the same name. He is 15, but still he rose, sheepishly, and took her hand when she asked him to dance. She said, “someday, at your wedding” and past and future met at that one moment.

“Can’t you see it?” my spirit breathed, as I stood at the sink, dish soap dripping off my hands.

Can’t you see how our lives intrinsically matter? How the past bunches up like a spring to launch us into the future— without us even knowing? Many things can be taken away, but not this.

Can we, gosh darn, pay attention to the quiet? To the songs our mothers and fathers sang over us when we were born? Can we not hold “you knit me together in my mother’s womb” close?

For we were loved, before we ever knew how to love back.