A year in the time of covid

For the past year, this is where my husband has sat for church on Sunday mornings, except on those Sundays when he masks up and goes into the sanctuary to be that week's tech operator. The church is otherwise empty but for the minister, whom everyone calls Mother Mary, and the altar acolytes, and no more than five in-person congregants, all masked and socially distanced. I enjoy when my man attends services at the dining table though. I sit across from him, usually working (no such thing as weekends for a freelancer), or maybe doing a jigsaw puzzle as I listen to him say the prayers and homilies along with his Zoom congregation. It always feels peaceful, as if I'm attending services, too, albeit by proxy. 

He sits in that spot by the window on weekdays as well, as he updates and modernizes the database for his department's ichthyology collection, except on his one day each week in the office. Only one staff person goes in each day, so the department always has coverage, but no one is exposed to anyone else. When he's working from home the other days, I have an exceptionally pleasant view. Speaking of exceptional, his T-shirt says "FATHOR/ Noun/ Like a dad, just way mightier / See also: handsome, exceptional." Our kids gave him that shirt one Father's Day. Also, it's still winter in the city, y'all. Outside our big window, the snow is falling again, fine flakes this time, dancing and swirling, almost hypnotic.