When my children ask about Covid-19 || A Poem

In the far reaches of the future
When all that is to happen has rushed past us
My children will ask
     Tell me
           Tell us 
Tell us about the pandemic 
    Their eyes wide with the curiosity of a child who has only known good times
Tell us what it was like to be alive then
I will pause, sit down, gather my thoughts around me
     And I will tell them of the spring the morels appeared
Woody, craggy, wholly unexpected
    Pushing up against all odds through the green grass of our Southern backyard
I will tell them of how the burning bushes put out their leaves
     In one wild rush
     As if spring were a sprint
     One burning week of life appearing from dormant life
I will tell them of days spent wandering through the bushes and trees
    That the color of the redbuds was the color of hope
     That one could not watch the hopping blue jay and not smile in delight
I will tell them of the sudden storm
     The tornado in all its fury forming before us
      The newscaster, the city, my mother and I all holding our breaths
       We watched the debris— houses, homes, buildings— flying up, away, gone
I will them of the pounding rain and dark sky
     And I will tell them the miracle
As the tornado tore apart our mall
     Taking our books, leaving them in another state
I will tell them of the few people working
    Who emerged from the rubble, looking around in disbelief
     The cars strewn like toys one on top of another
I will tell them that the entire city looked around in disbelief
    That not one person died
I will tell them that the world was a vast and unknowable place
     That the quiet backroads and the city centers were given different fates
I will tell them that the unknown was more frightening than any statistic could be
For the unknown came wrapped up in every worst case scenario the scientists could fathom
I will tell them that waiting
     Waiting
          Waiting
Is a different kind of pain than knowing
They will bore easily
     Their eyes will dart off looking for the next thing to do
My story will not be in the history books that are to be written
     Far sadder fates are lived and far sadder stories will prevail
But I will tell them the quiet story
     Of what it was like to be me