Olive,
You are two and a half years old now. I do wonder at what point this life will become your memories. This time of isolation could stretch on for over a year, they’re saying. Will you have any recollection of everything that came before? The art museums, playgrounds, farms, the roadtrips up to Vermont to see your grandparents, playdates, hugs, high fives, libraries, bookstores, farmers markets, those times we wandered around downtown together holding hands just because we felt we’d ‘been in the house too long’ after a couple of slow hours?
No, of course not. You’re somewhere between a baby and a kid and you won’t remember. But all that time, a time that already feels like an explosion of stimulation in comparison, is somewhere inside your cells. That time built you. You’re a slender, sturdy, ringlet-headed blue eyed toddler, pristine, flawless, like something sculpted out of pearl. I live in constant wonder of you.
