Filtered Existence

Everything is still not alright, but nonetheless there are kids playing. Now that there’s barely a hum of traffic the strident shrilling of their voices carries through open windows, across the quiet streets. They can’t have play-dates and the park gates have been tangled up with an angry crayon-yellow scribble. Instead they relearn their siblings, or exercise their parents. They are learning to be bored, they are learning what six feet looks like; six very specific feet. Everything is still not alright, but they can bike and scooter through the hushed and carless streets, and the teenagers will ask “Mom, was it like this in the seventies?”

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