She is learning to swim. In the pool she repeats, “I know, mama- you’ve got me.” It is a question as much as a statement. “I’m not letting go,” I assure her.

I am reminded of this picture. One I snapped months ago, when the world was full of different, hard news. When she crawled into bed beside me one morning before the sun had reached us.

Our windows are covered with fog in the morning. Little hands draw rainbows on them as we wait for the sun to clear our view.

We know that we are living in a moment of history. The magnitude of this reality hangs heavy like thick fog. We know that one day we will emerge from our homes running into the streets, into one another’s arms, into the sea.

I’ve been listening to country music lately.

For the last six years, country music was the soundtrack of my summer. It signaled baseball fields and long backroad drives and humidity and fireflies. I usually had my pick of at least 5 stations, as country was the local genre-of-choice nearly everywhere Kels played and coached baseball.

A few weeks ago, I suggested we head to see the wildflowers in the Antelope Valley. The California poppies bloom across the hills of the desert each spring, leaving the world blanketed in orange. I had never been out that way, Kels hadn’t been since he was a child. He was sure we were too early for the blooms, but I was itching for adventure, so we packed into the car and off we went.

This summer we found ourselves back at Dodger Stadium. Back at the place where we both first fell in love with the game many years ago. Him, as a little boy, trips with his dad to Dodger Stadium to cheer for the boys in blue. Me, a little later, with my family, with my girlfriends, cheering for the hometown team.