I promised myself last week that I would start writing again.

I have marked this day before. I’ll do it again.

Six years ago today was the last day that our family was together. After we huddled on our porch steps with peeling paint on that sweltering evening, our daughter bounced across the street and spent the night at our closest friends home, while we packed and prepared for an early morning arrival at Children’s Hospital.

That night is etched. Details. Details. I’ll never forget honoring that moment as she crossed the street. Anxiety and fear–masked by a compulsive and protective refrain. It’s routine. We’ve done this before. We’ll be fine.

I look out my window tonight. A quiet and vaguely familiar street—with a pandemic veil and fog exacerbating the disconnect. So much change.

The world has changed. This street has changed. My grief has changed.

Lulu is now twelve. She still bounces.