I have turned on the radio.
I have turned off the radio.
I have texted.
I have waited.
I have run from screen to screen,
playing the game of panic,
and I have panicked,
with gusto and abandon.
I have waited in line outside of the grocery store,
and waited in line inside of the grocery store,
and comforted a woman in line ahead of me,
overwhelmed by dog food,
and weeping because she had lost her mother.
I have rearranged my life,
and also the plants.
I have mended my black sweater with navy blue thread.
I have waited for the mango to warm up on the table,
I have made tea and scrubbed the dishes,
and learned to measure twenty seconds by heart.
I have witnessed a baptism on church Zoom,
and typed prayers into a chat box.
I have made soup with onions and carrots,
which sweetened the broth unexpectedly.
I have looked for apartments with gardens
and for other apartments with laundry,
and meanwhile I have approximated the spin cycle
by shuffling my feet in soapy water in the tub.
I have pretended to work.
I have given up on reading,
and on patience for language,
and instead I have stood at my north-facing window,
observing the blue jay in the catalpa tree,
and the cardinal in the paper mulberry,
watched their bodies beat with the effort of their calls,
which I have learned, also,
and noted to myself,
and tried to recall
as the sun sets, out of view,
somewhere west of this mess of clouds,
pink, at last, at 7 o’clock,
after so many months of darkness.
by Miranda Rose Hall
from 3 Views Theater