Early in the pandemic, I had occasion to page through photo albums my mother assembled during my childhood. Some of those happy images chilled my physician heart. There I was, two months old, sleeping peacefully on my stomach, in the middle of a sheepskin rug.
There I am, seven years later, seated with my siblings on lawn chairs in the bed of the pickup truck as my parents drove us home. We navigated that 15-mile trip multiple times a week for months.
There I am, age 12, grinning from my perch atop a wagon load of corn. On the way home from the co-op, I would ride standing on the wagon hitch while my siblings sat on the fenders.
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