My husband's birthday came in January, just like every year. Over ice cream cake at the kitchen table (since we couldn't safely dine in a restaurant), we invited our kids to guess how old he was turning. "19!" Said the five year old. Her grasp of time is tenuous at best. "No, he's 46," countered the seven year old. My husband conceded. "You're 46?" I said, puzzled. "I thought this was 45. Weren't you 44 last year?" "Year before last," he said. I had to sit with that for a while.  If we mark time by changes -- the new moon each month, the shift in the slant of light that comes with each season -- then it's no surprise I'm struggling. For most of last year, each day of sameness slid into the next day until they piled up at the end of the calendar like cars in a chain-reaction crash. It feels nearly impossible to pick out anything recognizable from that mess.  It's been a year since the first U.S. case of co