Morning, fog. Two pink metallic balloons from a birthday two months ago stand at attention in the dining room, perfectly still, side by side like the ventricles of a heart. The news says we’re going to Italy in the worst possible way: no Spanish Steps, only frozen pizza and triage. The mist wraps the building like a cat turning before it settles, like the Heavyside Layer, like Eliot said. Remote teaching is for the birds, the same cheerful songbird I heard singing yesterday that lives, I think, in a backyard tree. My daughter reads in bed: the balloons are hers.