As a library staff member, I came to work, I was at my desk, and I thought, “I’m going to walk around the library, to move around and see all the books.” It didn’t help. Every nook and cranny that usually has a patron in it, the children’s room … they were all empty.

I was upstairs closing the bedroom shutters when I first heard the sound. What was it? I ran downstairs to find my husband and the boys standing at the open front door. The clapping was loud and rhythmic. They joined in.

Here I have seen strangers become friends; I have seen people come in for a chat after a rough day at work; I have seen young performers practicing their art. We developed a sort of community– they became a part of my life. We exchanged conversations and swapped life stories.

I’ve noticed during this physical distancing period that despite being alone in my apartment and within my busy mind, there are daily moments that demand a quieting of thoughts to make way for collective emotional expression (grief and gratitude).

With my body shaking, I returned to my room, before trying to reach out to the instruments of justice. Alas, 8 p.m. is probably too late for NGOs, and COVID-19 too urgent to address cases of domestic violence.

Everywhere I looked, I saw rainbows.

Not every house, but many, had children’s drawings of rainbows taped to the front gates or the inside of the glass window panes.

wet rinsed morning
wipes the face
the wind whispers
tide at the door

listen

In April, my bones began telling me that the COVID-19 crisis isn’t something we can hope to put behind us; it’s something we must deepen into. This demands that we mourn the loss of beliefs killed by the crisis. Those beliefs served us for a long time, so they’ll haunt us like hungry ghosts if they’re not honored with a proper funeral and burial.

This virus, whatever else it’s doing to us, is defragmenting the world and defragmenting me. Two years ago, I wrote a poem about a conversation with the God of death. In it, he had come to take me away, but I say, “Please let me stay back, because I have a lot to do.”

I discussed my feelings with a friend. Thankfully, I’m in a very safe space during the lockdown, but I know there are people who are stuck with homophobic parents, roommates, and landlords. My friend and I thought, “Let us start a virtual support group.”

I think of my mother, deceased now for twelve years. I am glad she is not living still, to be in the path of the relentless virus decimating the elderly. But I think of her, child of the Great Depression, sustained through lean years by stale, government-issued dried cow's milk she described as rancid.

As my return date to the U.S. approached, a connection in Europe was no longer safe. Some suggested I delay my return, but most just wished me well. My friend V. handed me a tiny cloth pouch bag containing a mauve colored garnet stone which I didn’t know was my birth stone. My friend A. gave me a horseshoe that he had found on a Himalayan trail.

One time, on the bus ride home from school, I looked out the window and saw an adorable older couple taking a walk and holding hands. I pointed them out to my friend next to me; she replied, “Aren’t those your grandparents?”

I took a closer look; she was right.

My plans for June were drawn well in advance: I would finally take the “Camino de Santiago” with my son. He was named after the pilgrim saint, so reaching the holy city of Compostela, in Spain, was a mandatory trip. More than anything, it was an opportunity for deep sharing.

Amidst this constant certainty, I told myself that I could only have one fear. The fear I chose for myself was snakes. Everything else was surmountable. If my plan gets delayed for a few days? Fine, no snakes. If I fall in the river? Fine, as long as there are no snakes. If I wake up with a chicken on top of me? At least it is not a snake!

We are now ready for you to leave us, as our healthcare workers, mass transit workers, grocery store workers, port workers, rubbish collectors, and all other essential workers need respite.

The last time I remember being struck with the deafening noise of silence was when I had just come back to my studio apartment in West Oakland and sat on the coach after a three-month stint teaching …

I get a call. The getting a call is usual, as the shelter gets call all the time for new admissions for people experiencing homelessness who are positive for COVID-19 and need a safe place to recover. But the content of the call was unusual.

I am quarantined with a teenager. It is just she and I, the dogs, and the cat. This teen is my daughter, my friend, my binge-watching TV companion, my work out buddy, and my therapist.

There’s a laugh that’s not really a laugh. You know what I’m talking about, right? When someone laughs but you can hear the cry in it?