My sister-in law and her husband went to Mexico and got COVID. My mother in-law didn’t – travel to Mexico that is. She did get COVID though through a seemingly unrelated English as a first language vector. All three have managed to have flu like symptoms. That happened to my immediate family a few months ago and, with the exception, of one throw up on the part of my youngest and a few days of sniffles and congestion on the part of my wife, you’d hardly have known we had it at all. Even the vomit could be chalked up the regular rhythms of a nine-year old’s digestive system.

The previous time my family was plague my wife lost her sense of smell for a few days and felt fluey. My kids tested positive and loved it. An infected house doesn’t have to go to school and their symptom free battle with the virus meant movies, video, games, walks by the creek, and even a book or two. I remained, at least for the time, immune throughout our ten days sequester. I lived amongst them, slept in bed with one of them, and finished their leftovers. I couldn’t catch an outbreak.

I did eventually get it. I was in a situation away from home when I failed my mandatory test, was sent home and asked to return a week later which I did, only to test positive again and get tossed into quarantine with six other unlucky souls. One fellow had about twenty-four hours of terrible fever and congestion but the rest of us were fine. We watched baseball and read for a week.

COVID is waning. Whatever thread is loose among society is so weak in comparison to the previous incarnations that for my in-laws to all present as actually ill with flu like symptoms seems like a throwback; like we’ve all hopped into a time machine and travelled back to the year 2022 (but in June or July.) It’s like the three of them arrived at a club with bell bottoms on.

Sunday’s typically mean family dinner. This is rudely interrupting my regular routine.