It was so quiet where we lived. I could lay in the hammock and just hear the sound of the neighbor’s air conditioner and occasional cars, long spans of silence with birds peeping. The cars could be mistaken for low tide. That deep country quiet where voices travel across wide distances. Then all of it reduced down to nothing: Sunday afternoon, almost summer.

Lily confided in me, said dad I never really like camping or hiking. I just did it because I wanted to spend time with you. I screen shot an America LP cover from Spotify and text it to her: the three of them look so alien and spaced out, freak flag style. They’re just quintessential 70s. Suede sofas and corduroys, our apartment decked out in earth tones. Maybe a rust orange area rug for good measure.

We go to the protest with Dawn’s mom, born in ‘39. A lot of her church friends too. Normal people, everyone with signs and a lot of cars going by honking and waving. It feels like we could make a difference. I scan the rooftops for snipers too. Picture myself doing the duck and roll.

Charlotte made me a bracelet, the kind with individual letters strung together that spells a word. They look like mini Scrabble tiles: it says EXCELLENT FATHER, a reference from a Taylor Swift song. I wear it on my video calls when I’m working. She says tomorrow dad I’m going to walk with you, so get me up. I’ll leave at 5 and she agrees.

It is always the same: in two weeks my work will end and I don’t know when it will resume. The checks will stop coming in and our accounts will draw down. But for a time, with it summer, I can tell myself it will be alright, it normally is, and just be at home with the pets, the kids and the plants: “chewing on a piece of grass, walking down the road…“

Categories: Creative Nonfiction, Diary, Memoir, parenting

Tags: Creative Nonfiction, pacific northwest, parenting