Tomorrow the light takes its first step to returning, a baby step on a six-month journey to the brightest day. We will long remember what was lost this year, but a year from now, will I remember what I gained?
Remember the fullness of my house in spring and summer, the proximity to the energy of young people becoming themselves, unfolding together in a symphony that long ago I conducted but now I sit for as audience.
Remember discovering that my garage was the quietest room in my house.
Remember learning recipes from my niece, planning meals in advance, and finding satisfaction in making things last. Remember baking cookies for no other reason than we wanted to eat cookies.
Remember walking to my parents’ house and ringing the doorbell, knowing they would appear. Remember my dad saying in his never-enough-time-in-a-day way, Let me put on my shoes, like a puppy just told it was time for a walk. Remember his grandchildren’s baby faces on his t-shirts, their college names on his sweatshirts and hats. Remember his white hair, which I still know to be dark brown deep down beneath the skin, sticking out.
Remember my mom, who finally stopped wearing a bra fifty years after that was revolutionary, who filled up her calendar with zoom political meetings, exercise and patience, sighing as he eagerly ties his sneakers, that breath saying only her daughters understand what she puts up with, and how much she loves him and his idiosyncrasies. Remember sitting outside with her addressing postcards to voters, and getting up to dance to Lady Gaga.
Remember wine, and wondering if I would ever go back to old habits of drinking less of it.
Remember walking with Christopher through the neighborhood, down the hidden stairway, making room for people coming up, winding up at the beach and falling asleep on the sand.
Remember the things I wish I had done more of — meals for health care workers, phone calls to friends, quiet afternoons with a novel or backgammon with my son — kindnesses to strangers and loved ones and self — and do more of them.
Remember finally taking the kids on an RV trip a decade after thinking that idea had come and gone. Remember driving it over the Rockies and across the country, taking my husband to his 49th state, and swimming in a lake in our underwear. Remember that there are still so many things we can do. Remember that when our choices were limited, we made new ones.
Laura Nicole Diamond 