Life is made of moments. We shouldn’t let them go

My son talked for 20 minutes about acoustic wavelengths, sitting sideways on a big chair in the living room, his legs dangling over the arm.

I listened, not grasping the concepts but enjoying his enthusiasm and that he was telling me. Me. I’m not the person Sawyer typically turns to for scientific discussions.

There have been a lot of these moments in the last year.

It’s been a terrible year, with people dying and getting sick. People lost their jobs. We couldn’t gather or travel.

But it gave us this time. Time to talk without thinking about what else we should be doing. Time together without the pull of needing to be somewhere else.

I’ve spent some of the time on my front porch, getting to know the kids who live next door. Emily, who’s 9, tells me about the books she’s reading. Jaren, 7, pats our dog. Nila, 3, is happy for any attention. Their mother died last year, their dad told me.

When Emily and Jaren rode bikes, Nila ran after them, so I got her a tricycle. She zips along the sidewalk, calling “Watch me!” to Sawyer.

He’s on the front porch with the woman who lives on our other side, a doctoral student studying geology, sharing a bottle of wine.

I talk on the phone with family and friends, trading crockpot recipes and recommending British crime shows.

My cousins help me with home repairs. I go there for dinner and to play dominoes. On pickleball courts, I catch up with friends over the net.

The pandemic isn’t over. But with case numbers dropping and more people vaccinated, we’ve started to pick up the pace of our old lives.

I’m not sure I want to.

My world got smaller, more intimate and less stressful. I felt more connected to my people, even when we were apart, grumpy or restless.

I want to hang onto that. I’ll make the time.