It’s hard to believe that the terrible reign of COVID-19 started 6 years ago. The pandemic sometimes feels more like a world we went to than a time we lived through, and we don’t much like being reminded of that place or care to revisit it. Usually when the pandemic comes up in casual conversation, it’s all sighs and sentence fragments. We shake our heads and swiftly shift gears. It’s a lovely little trick of our human nature that we have trouble conjuring experiences of pain. But “the past is never dead. It isn’t even past,” William Faulkner once wrote. And whether we wish to speak any more of the pandemic or not, it continues, of course, to speak through us.

I’ve been separated from the father of my children for 6 years now. At this point separation has become old hat. Maybe too old hat cause I can’t really imagine myself in a relationship anymore. Sharing space with another adult? Being witnessed in my parenting? Trying to collaborate with them in parenting? Gah. Sounds like a lot. And a lot of relationships I see look like barely veiled co-dependence or simple inertia. Then there are the few that I do truly envy and admire. And I think how lucky for those folks. Because, though we don’t love to admit it, most of life is based on nothing loftier than luck.

After the long months (or was it years?) of being cooped up during the pandemic, simply getting to roam free in the world again was thrilling. I remember how, finally being out in wide open spaces essential for boy energy, my favourite thing to say to my sons was “run on ahead.” It’s a line I’m sure many parents relish deploying whenever they can; the subtext is of course closer to something my Scottish grandmother might have said: “get the fuck.” But saying it feels good for good reason. When it comes to parenting, getting distance is a really good metaphor for, well… getting distance.