I couldn't sleep last night. I was worrying about the virus, trying to find answers for things I don't know yet. I was planning days that don't exist and spinning up into anxiety that only kept me awake. This morning's pages told me this story. You've probably heard it before.

An old guy sits on a bench in a park across from a pond and near a playground. The late afternoon sun shines softly. It's an ordinary kind of day, warm enough to enjoy, not so hot as to notice. He sits alone. He is calm, patient, accepting of whatever the day brings.

On the playground a boy runs and screams. He moves from slide to swing to teeter-totter. He spins and jumps, hangs and rolls. He's me. I'm going as fast as I can. I don't know if there are other kids there. I'm too busy.

I know the old guy on the bench. I know he's waiting. I try to ignore him. I don't want to slow down, don't want to stop, don't want to go home. I don't want to grow up.

But children tire and get hungry. I walk away from the playground, heart still pounding, blood racing, breath uneven. I sit on the bench and look toward the pond. Two ducks glide out of the sky, splash into the water, then settle in calmly. My breathing slows. The afternoon shifts one minute into evening. The light changes, the trees sigh, a squirrel pauses to see its world.

I turn to tell the old man that I'm ready to go, but there's no one there. I'm sitting in his place. Calm, patient, accepting of what has happened.

I turn from the pond toward the playground where a boy runs and screams. He tries not to look my way.

And I understand just exactly how he feels.