On Khalil’s seventh day of school, I bought my coffee outside and sat on the blue woven chair. The chair first sat on our deck in California and then on our balcony in Durham and now in our Ontario backyard. The sun was still behind the basswood tree and the waves crashed. Monarch butterflies landed on the roses a few feet away and a bee hovered above the tomato plants.

I took a deep breath and wiggled my toes on the patio stone. I went back inside, returning with a cushion for the chair, my book, and a cotton blanket.

Khalil loves school. Every day, we watch local cases and monitor school spread, and hope we are making the right decision. (Next right thing. Next right thing.)

Amelia, a friend who feels like family, visited us. She was our first visitor since the pandemic started and we all spent the nine days competing for her attention. She’s been gone a week and before school, Khalil asked if he could have his hair done in “Amelia’s room” and while I massaged the pomade in he sighed, That Amelia. She’s a real cutie, isn’t she?

This morning, I came inside and made a strawberry crisp. I’ve been making them every few days — strawberries coated in flour on the bottom with flour, oats, brown sugar, butter, vanilla, and salt sprinkled on top. The house smelled like butter and sugar and berries and I curled up in the window reading Beautiful World, Where Are You? by Sally Rooney.

I got to a line and gasped in recognition. Throughout the book, the protagonists are agonizing about what it means to be a moral person while we are complicit in our a deeply flawed society. Why do we care so much about little things when there are big things crumbling?

And I think about these months for our family. The juxtaposition of the daily instances of love and beauty held up against the fact that 1 in 500 Americans has died from Covid. That, somehow, moments like hugging Khalil after school and getting a haircut from Amelia in my bathroom, feel like miracles.

I suppose I think that having a child is simply the most ordinary thing I can imagine doing. And I want that — to prove that the most ordinary thing about human beings is not violence or greed but love and care. To prove it to whom, I wonder. Myself, maybe.

- Sally Rooney

Last Friday, on what should have been Khalil’s ninth day of school, he woke up sick. When he caught his last virus, nearly two years ago, he wasn’t yet able to describe physical sensation. On Friday, David carried Khalil to our bed and his eyes were glassy. I asked what was wrong and he croaked, “my plank.” (I cannot explain to you why he calls a leg cramp a plank.)

He tried to drink some water and he grimaced. Ok, it’s his throat. We asked if his throat hurt. Yes, he whimpered. I asked him to open wide and he could do it! It’s the first time I’ve seen his throat without his little baby tongue blocking my view. His sweet tonsils were red and swollen. His breathing seemed ok, but we were watching. The last time he was sick, his breathing deteriorated quickly.

After all of these months of avoiding Covid, it was jarring to finally think that maybe we had it. We booked him a test for a few hours later and told his teacher that he wasn’t coming in. She mentioned that a few kids had been congested in his class and had tested negative. A good sign.

Everyone in our city gets tested in the same location. Surprisingly, Khalil didn’t mind having the swab deep in his nose. In fact, he asked to go back. They have a doctor on site who met with Khalil and David after the test, and she listened carefully to his lungs. Clear.

Our results came in about 8 hours after his test — negative. A cold.

He’s still a little congested but his fever only lasted a day. His energy is high and he’s back at school this week. We are still checking on him in the middle of the night and watch his breathing carefully. Unlike last time, he understands how to take a deep breath on command now. He’s able to blow his nose. He knows what asthma is. I’m just trying to remind myself that things have changed. Just because the last time he got sick, it turned into pneumonia and he worsened late one night and we had to call 9-1-1 and the paramedics said he was likely septic (he wasn’t), doesn’t mean that’s what will happen now.

Every time won’t be that time.

Today, on Khalil’s tenth day of school, we have a wooden bowl of apples on our counter. The tree out front is overflowing and neighbors come by and fill bags. Our tomato plant made a little tomato stoplight this weekend.

This morning, before hugging bye, Khalil sat on my lap. I held him like a baby and we rocked. I sang a song that I made up for him years ago, changing the verses as our life changes. “You are a baby and I love you. You are a baby and you go to school. You are growing and you are learning. You are a kid. I love you.” Again! Again! again! he demanded. He twirled a strand of my hair, as he did years ago, and pressed his face into my sternum.

Sometimes, it’s easy to believe that what makes us human is our love and our care.

Jessica Slice writes about disability, poems, and waterfowl

Tomato Stoplight