Our son calls me into his room after bedtime again

by Shea Tuttle

Tonight, he is worried, his eyes bright
in the darkness. What’s wrong? I ask.
I keep coughing, he says. Oh, Sugar,
I say, leaning to kiss his forehead.
This is a trick I learned
by accident: it looks like
reflexive affection, idle
comfort, but really
I am taking his temperature. He is
cool. Cool as a cucumber, as my mother
used to say, her hand smooth
against my forehead. You just need
some sleep, I tell our son, also a line
from my mother. Mentally, I measure
pollen counts, today’s degree
of physical exertion, what he ate
for dinner, lunch, breakfast.
I remember the Saharan dust cloud,
the air quality warning in the neighboring county.
I think you’re going to be just fine,
I tell him, kiss him again. I notice
I sound calm, confident. I say
I love you, like always. I go back
to my bed, where my laptop waits,
my browser open to a graph
of case counts, the line falling through
April, May, part of June, then at the very edge
of the graph, the part that meets
the empty space of now, a rise.
I listen, but the house is quiet
except for the dog who, though sleeping,
is snuffling and half-howling,
his own dreams, I imagine, taking him
on walks without leashes,
through yards without fences,
after cats and rabbits, squirrels and blue jays
that always only just get away.

Shea Tuttle is the author of Exactly as You Are: The Life and Faith of Mister Rogers and co-editor of Can I Get a Witness: Thirteen Peacemakers, Community Builders, and Agitators for Faith and Justice. She lives in Virginia with her family. Arabella Luna Friedland is a visual artist and writer based in New York City. She’s influenced by a childhood with cartoons, a classical education in anatomy and life drawing, and a firm belief that all art — is a portrait.