At the beginning of the pandemic, my mom and I had a phrase we kept using: "It's just two weeks." At first, it was earnest, with a tinge of hope. Then it became progressively more sardonic, saying we're up for the next installment of just two more weeks. I suggested that we get matching tattoos at some point. She turned me down.

There was comfort in having similar experiences with others during the pandemic, even as you knew that you perhaps belonged to one group or another — the immunocompromised, the nurses asking for fresh masks, the office workers strapped in with their toddlers and endless reruns of Cocomelon. It was a personal experience, but we were experiencing the event in our bubble, in our groups, and yet, still collectively.

With access to nearly instantaneous shared experiences throughout the world, it's becoming harder to personalize the situation beyond a low hum of dread that swells in the background. It's not my hands digging through rubble for my children, but I can feel the feral ache it could bring. It's human.

The report on the deaths in Uvalde, the cascading failures from so many, was breathtaking. It's a rare experience to raise my hand to switch from news at the hour to a local DJ making jokes about the traffic I was traveling in. I thought I could handle the story and let it in. I could breathe even, slow inhales, slow exhales. I could reinforce that inner rebar I'd need before heading to a public meeting.

After all, it was not my hands pulling against slabs until the reporter introduced a mother whose 10-year-old had died. I have a 10-year-old. She wears Converse, like her daughter, who died. She wanted her daughter's memory to stay alive. What memories would I take from my daughter as a memorial? Her wit, her caring, her laughter — all ephemeral if not concrete to those who know her and saw her soul. Yet, for a brief moment, the soul of that mother's daughter was now linked to mine.

And here I was, driving past my street, my neighborhood. And here I was, heading to spend another two hours away from my family, exploring the mundane issue of traffic problems, instead of speeding home and gathering my daughter in my hands that weren't gray from the rubble, but with a soft heart that understood that we were safe, so far. But that threat still feels near.

But I've flattened life in a way that keeps up with everything a typical life demands, and with that flattening, nights have gathered more elements of routine that I cling to, which build both gratitude and shame.

After dinners, time slows, an encapsulation of a family's twilight, homework and laundry, offers of tea, and last spurts of boisterous tales from the day — from a child to a parent, from a parent to a parent, from a wife to a husband, from a brother to a sister. A pot of tea is brewed. Or maybe a hot chocolate instead, before teeth are brushed and as we continue on our mundane, lucky paths.

But there's a shame that I should seek out an extra moment to envelope myself with gratitude, particularly against the looming pile of debris in other places. My bubble is there, reinforced on a foundation that can be just as easily demolished through hatred, even if my hands would not be gray and are not red.

Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at [email protected]. To find out more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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