“There’s no treasure here,”
my son said, shaking his head
while we strolled city sidewalks,
taking in pink tulips and taking care to
keep 6 feet of distance from our neighbors.
(He’d been searching for an X marks the spot,
a close to our winding journey—
I wanted to admit Jack was right,
mind-mapping all the good things we were missing:
the playground and playmates and Grandma and
what it feels like to move about freely.
Then I spotted not an X, but a
1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10 etched in pastels.
Jack hopped, giggled, whirled to me.
“Mommy, come on! It’s your turn!”
Even though I didn’t feel like it,
Later that day, he spied
beams of light caught in raindrops,
refracted across the sky.
There’s no clear end in sight,
and frankly, I’m weary.
But there’s hopscotch.
And, arguably, treasure.