Timestamp.

I comment to her that the coffee from the new coffee maker doesn't taste as good and she says something about it maybe being because it's not, "what is it called?" "Seasoned?" I reply and we both crack up at the idea that our grody old coffee maker had seasoning. I love these moments with her where she's so teenager and so becoming.

He sits on my bed and tells me about the difference in the tests,  tucking his long man feet under the sheets. He smiles and we talk about how things will be fine even in this strange time and then he leaves to go to bed and I am overcome with the thought that in a year he will be gone. This is not a new feeling and  I know how to breathe through it but it engulfs me and I wear it on my skin for the next three days even though I push the thought aside and aside and aside.

We lump into my bed less frequently now but he comes in to talk and rest his head and she sidles in and soon enough we are in a tickle fight like so many before. She always gets the better end of the attention stick in these moments, a fierce tickler and relentless. He lets her have those moments, laughing and cheering her/me/her/me on. They are bonded beyond, all of these miles and the twisty flips and they've walked it together. That familiarity of shared experience and the plentitude of love from all sides. Consonant, good. We finally stop and just spend a moment all breathing and smiling before I ask one too many times for them to go to bed. We all linger, here and now. It won't be forever.