Covid-19 descended on my household the week before Christmas, a fitting end to 2020. The symptoms, while miserable for those of us afflicted, could have been much worse. I am, after all, gratefully able to write this piece.

The kids, spring chickens, are back in fine fettle, but recovery for my wife, Devin, and me has been somewhat slower. The lingering symptom has been a maddeningly persistent brain fog.

For her, this manifests mainly in 3 p.m. feeling like 3 a.m., day after bone-wearying day. In my case, it’s less general grogginess and more a specific inability to see the humor I once saw all around me. But the events of a recent evening give me hope we’re both turning a corner.

On the night in question, Devin was dragooned into helping our son Finn, a sixth-grader, with his math homework. Based on what I overheard while passing the kitchen table, fractions were involved. Finn was struggling with a concept, and Devin was offering assistance that, while loving, was of dubious value.

“All you need to do is cross-multiply,” Devin instructed.

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