The call came Sunday morning, early: “Dad, we’re headed to the hospital!” And I was on my way to Washington D.C. The plan was for Little Tommy to spend the night at a friend’s house, and Courtney was to be admitted to Sibley Memorial Hospital, and from there, a decision as to next steps would be made. As it turned out, she had a successful C-Section, and as I paced up and down our first floor, I could barely stand the stress. Once the picture of mom and baby arrived, I broke down sobbing. Birth. In the midst of the hell we’re living, there is a new life. I left in the wee hours of Monday morning to begin my drive through the land of COVID. The experience was something I’d gleaned from dystopian novels, stories, and movies. There was very little traffic – even for a Sunday – but the aura was the most remarkable and would be for the week I was away. Except for the occasional truck or car, rest areas were abandoned and had that apocalyptical scene of blowing papers, taped up drinking fountains, growing weeds, and dust covered walks. Gas stations were quiet, and I had to be mindful of wearing gloves and then wiping everything down with an alcohol pad. Since I packed the car as if I was venturing back out onto Lake Superior for two months, or up and over the Chilkoot Pass into the Yukon, I had food, water, and necessities so as to avoid all human contact for a twelve hour drive. Through Ohio, Pennsylvania, into Maryland, and then the District, I saw people driving with masks, I saw glances of strange affects with furrowed brows, and I noticed a quickening in my own heart of wanting to get somewhere safe and healthy. Thirteen hours later, I found a parking spot right in front of the kids home, went inside, and Little Tommy (the Bub) came running for a hug – and a long hug it was, mostly from me. The Doula was spending the day at the home until I arrived, and when she departed I breathed into my security of family and dutiful grandparenting. The first twenty-four hours was me and the “Bub” playing toys, figuring out food, and getting the house cleaned for a new arrival. Tommy and Courtney didn’t get home till the next evening, and after the Bub went to bed, we had pizza and wings delivered, and I had a martini, a well deserved martini. The week traversed into a routine of me spending all day with the Bub, helping with baby Russ, assisting where I could, and allowing Courtney to rest and Tommy to finish a thesis. His post-doc work will be over as of May 3rd, but since there will be no Georgetown graduation, we did a Zoom ceremony on Saturday with friends and family from around the country. Courtney ordered a cake, and I wrote my 5th commencement speech and even contrived a diploma. The days had gone by rapidly, and we took many a walk, but I only ventured into one establishment to order a sandwich, knowing I needed to stay disease free. Since the kids live up on Capitol Hill, the neighborhood was flowing with people all safe in their masks, with strollers, dogs, and lots of bikes. I did see the best political yard sign ever: “Any Functioning Adult: 2020.” There was even a front-yard gabfest with next-door neighbor, Tracy, and she invited people into the fray as they happened by; a truly pleasurable and comforting event while I sat on the front bench holding baby Russ in my arms. Back in my car on Sunday for the return trip, the highways were as empty as before, the rest areas and turnpike service stations morbidly quiet, and as evening turned to dark, I noticed a crescent moon glowing with Venus holding a courtside seat. I can only attempt to describe the emotions and feelings of the moment. I had worked to remain clean and healthy for a month to be there for my son and his family; I had relished my week of being a grandfather, Doula, and butler while hiding my sadness of missing my wife and the security of my own home; but I was mesmerized by the emptiness in society I had driven through, and as the moon and stars above watched in curiosity, I smiled knowing they’ve seen all this before. Mankind will hopefully slow and take heed of these quiet times. Perhaps, in our rebirth, we can look up at Venus more often knowing how small and vulnerable we really are.