Kids on a Rope

On the sidewalk below, there is a string of little people, each clutching a piece of neon green ribbon that binds them together like skiers on a tow. At the corner of Kenilworth and 35th, they morph into a clump of chattering pink and black sweatshirts. Kids on a rope. Their elementary school is just across the street.  One of the adult leaders pulls out her cell phone and snaps a photo of the red and yellow tulip bed in front of my apartment building. She hurries, nearly skips, to rejoin the group so they can cross the street together.

In India, they cannot build funeral pyres fast enough.

As I work at my computer, I hear the thump of a basketball followed by a swoosh. Then another. The once silent playground across the street has been overrun by strangers who seem happy to be back. I hear teachers shouting at kids to form a straight line.

“We are fighting missiles with sticks,’ the doctors in New Delhi say. “But we cannot give up the fort.”

My sister Eileen and I, both fully vaccinated, decide to venture into a movie theater to watch The Courier, a Cold war-era spy story showing at a nearby theater. It turns out to be a private showing- we are the only ones in the crushed velvet seats. I tell my sister she does not need to wear her mask, but we all do what makes us comfortable. Later we toast watching a film on a screen larger than our Roku TVs.

A 37-year-old mother is tethered to a ventilator in Royal Oak, Michigan. With 200 Covid patients, the unit is at capacity.

On my evening walk, I see a Japanese cherry tree, illumined by a streetlamp.  A half-moon keeps a vigil overhead. Its light is steady and defiant.

When I return, I notice there is a single pink bud on my lemon tree plant.