By Joy Marie Sandford

“Good morning! I missed you!” She squealed in her usual timbre. Her hands were spread like sunflower petals against cozy sweatpants and her shoulders sprouted up toward her ears as if guided by the sunshine in her own voice. You’d think I just come home from an apartment somewhere else in the city. I didn't just come home. I’ve been home. This, I’m lucky to say, is my mother’s delightful homeostasis.    And even though the night before I’d brought her some fresh-dipped sweet potato fries while she and her homies live streamed Wednesday night Bible Study… Even though we spent the hours prior strolling somebody else’s neighborhood park dressed like twin secret agents on a mission to wash the spirit of Corona from every dinner plate in Torrance… Even though we’d spent weeks hunkered in the house together, cooking, working, exercising, tinkering, praying, examining our breath – she missed me, and the feeling was deep and mutual. 

I think what she meant is what I started to express the day before. 

Yesterday, I skipped downstairs to greet a work-from-home version of my mother that I’ve been secretly thankful to see. I’m used to the work-from-sun-up-to-sun-down-plus-weekends version. Don’t get me wrong, that version is just as delightful! Perhaps more delightful since that version gets out, I mean, like any sunflower, fresh air and good sun gives her all the life.  

And while she’s a spry young thang, she is every bit a Black American lady human coping with these realities as best as her lord and her body will allow.  So these days I skip downstairs because I’m delighted to see her busy body working and resting right here in the living room.  But, as is true for all dreams that suddenly come true in the middle of one's living room, this dream-come-true also comes with terms and conditions.

Because in what other world would my busy mother be both working and resting than one in quarantine? And in what other red pill ass reality would an inner child finally feel that close, continuous maternal presence than one in which she could get no closer than 6 ft – no reassuring hugs, no hands to hold tight?

Truth be told, I’m not clear if in-house social distancing is quite so strongly suggested since, among the items on my personal social distancing plan, highlighted, circled and underlined is the news. Still, when it comes to direction from on high, whether from the pulpit or the public library, we are both zealots even if we spell our Lord/e’s name differently.

This means when the powers that be, wherever they be, instruct us to stay away or your loved ones could go, they’ve got at least two enthusiastic followers in me and my mother. 

That’s something we share. That and our unspeakable need to be closely connected to people in the world.  I should speak for myself – my need to connect is the one that sometimes goes unspoken. My mother’s need is usually sweet voiced and unabashed, calling in new folks from the world at every wonderful revolution her life turns. That’s something her and my big sis share. We three got that deep sea desire to click up and connect with folks, and those two know just how to make it happen. They’re like magicians that way. For now, I’m still figuring it out.  Guess there’s no time like the unprecedented.

Maybe my readiness to give it a try bubbled up yesterday morning when I skipped down to find a working, resting momma bear at the dining room table typing away. “Good morning!” my mother sang, then sprung to her feet. “Good morning, Boomy!” I harmonized stepping closer with increasing caution. “I wonder– if it’s ok– are we able to–” I said tripping over this big fat void where a hug used to be.  “I don’t know,” she smiled reluctantly, eyes darting for answers not even Faucci could find.   “Ok,” I shrugged, draining the need before it spilled over.  Instead of our routine affections, she tells me of the smoothie she made for me in the fridge, of the conversation she had with her lord and savior this morning. I thank her twice for the smoothie in case she missed the first one, and share vivid dreams from the night before.

We defer much needed affection as if saving up for a future togetherness where hugs are less volatile investments than they are today. For now, no hugs, good night pecks on the cheek, interlocked arms on beach walks. No high fives, no clasped prayer hands. No closer than the dining room table between us.  We, instead, take our anecdotes and meals and dreams and thank yous, wipe them down with lemon scented wipes, and daisy-chain bridges from my end of the living room to hers.

Friday, we air out our fears and paranoias over our morning smoothies. My mother reconsidered her earlier reluctance. I considered reaching out more to connect with the world starting with my neighbors and friends.  Friday night, I fried up some okra in the spirit of our ancestors. We ate across the dining room table, cleaned the kitchen, and before my mother went up to bed, she voiced sweetly, “Do you think it’s ok to hug?” “I think it’s ok,” I grinned reaching out. Yes gawd, we did it! Mission accomplished – we beat the system, another wonderful revolution turned. Tonight we’ll sleep less afraid and more connected than the night before. Amen, Asé.