One night I’m in the basement all by myself. I’m sorting through my family’s dirty clothes. We have one of those old fluorescent ceiling lights, and it’s buzzing and the light jitters and jitters. It’s casting fidgety shadows across the concrete and the old cobwebs. I’m worried it’s about to pop.

I look into the deep corners of the basement and I can’t remember the last time I swept out the dust. I pull a wad of green fabric from the pile. My daughter’s shirt. A long sleeve button-up. She must have pulled it off over her head, leaving it buttoned, leaving the sleeves rolled up. Now it’s inside out and somehow folded into a knot of pockets and collars and cuffs. It’s like a medieval puzzle box with a demon locked inside.

Don’t open.

As I’m untangling the shirt, I’m brainstorming a lecture on the proper way to handle dirty clothes before you toss them down the chute. I remember how even today, my kids are fascinated by the little door in the hallway upstairs and how you can throw stuff into the darkness.

Here in August, the crickets are damn near overwhelming. How many are out there in the grass, stuffing the atmosphere chock-full with that noise?

I start wondering about the upcoming school year and the pandemic and about how we’ll all be doing things we’ve never done. All of us. I wonder about all the decisions we’ve made.

I’ve unlocked the shirt. I shut off the light and it stops buzzing. I stand for a bit in the darkness.

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One night we’re out walking, my wife and I. Holding hands and strolling from streetlight to streetlight. Here in August, the crickets are damn near overwhelming. How many are out there in the grass, stuffing the atmosphere chock-full with that noise?

But you get used to it. We’ve taken so many walks. Now the cricket drone is just part of the outside world. Like the dark clouds up above. Like the black trees looming up over our houses from the backyards and the alleyways – monsters in hiding. Like the cemetery at the end of our street.

Now the crickets and their urgent singing is normal. Like blood rushing in the back of your head. Your eardrums might shiver now and then, but you can take it. This world is bigger than these crickets, I think. And the night is always beautiful.

My wife has spent half her life walking around Eau Claire. From streetlight to streetlight. But I’ve never really shared that love – not really – until this pandemic kept us home.

Sometimes it takes me a while to learn these things.

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One night we walk past the cemetery with its grey stones in the moonlight and hundreds of little solar-powered LEDs twinkling ’til morning. This is where they had the fireworks last month on the Fourth of July. The city shot them off from the hill over the city, hoping people could stay home and watch. Stay home and stay safe.

Some neighbors complained of course. The noise. The smoke. The fallout. I understood the worries. But I liked it. With apologies to those with PTSD and those with sensitive dogs and cats, I liked it.

We just tossed some lawn chairs into the front yard, and all of a sudden we had the best view we’ve ever had ever. I know not everyone had that view. Some drove to nearby parking lots or just watched on TV. But for us it was amazing.

And so I was selfish. I just let myself be happy about these fireworks, so huge and so fantastic right over our heads. My kids ran around the yard with flashlights, laughing and breathless. People cheered from blocks away. All our neighbors kept their distance, but we were together. Kind of together. It was kind of normal.

No. It was better than normal.

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Here in August, people are still blasting off fireworks late at night. Our cat hates it, but I don’t mind so much. Little explosions out of nowhere. It keeps things interesting.

But I like thunder at night and the rain and the constant flashing of lightning against the window shades. I like staring out at the trees as they whip around in the stormy gust. I like feeling a little scared.

I don’t need a storm, though. I like the wind in the trees, too. My wife tells me there’s a word for that sound. Psithurism. Pronounced sith-err-iz-um. It’s a noise that lives outside.

My wife tells me there’s a word for that sound. Psithurism. Pronounced sith-err-iz-um. It’s a noise that lives outside.

My wife knows everything important. She mulls the hard decisions deep within her heart. Should we send the kids to school? Should we let Grandma and Grandpa visit? Should we worry about life and death while we make our grocery lists and wonder which store will have the fewest people at which time?

I don’t think she likes the firecrackers late at night here in August. So unpredictable. So jarring. But she puts up with it and hardly complains.

She keeps us all safe.

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One night, here in the house, we play a card game. We tease each other. We annoy each other. We like being so close until we don’t. But we go to bed fairly happy. Fairly lucky. And we wake up and start a new day together.

Together. We are in this together.