On the days I am able to feel grateful for the quiet time, sleeping late, walks in the sunshine, returning to my writing routine, and time with my husband, this pulling back feels like a gift. Maybe even a miracle when we needed one for the world. But on the days when I’m not sure how long our toilet paper supply will last and the shelves are empty, I wake up at 2:30 am and can’t go back to sleep for all the places my anxious brain wants to take me. This awake brain reminds me I’m in the demographic group that won’t get the respirators. I didn’t finish the novel. Our estate plans are not in place. The baseboards on the bottom floor are filthy. I regret losing contact with my cousin. No one will find the place where I hid my mother’s wedding rings. I should have gone skiing one more time. These days don’t feel so miraculous. But there is Love in the Time of the Pandemic. It’s complicated. Life has always been in the details, now more than ever. I am grateful for peanut butter, daffodils, spring sunshine, good books, red wine, and staying in touch with friends. And so much more. I am finding my small miracles.

Steak and eggs with hash browns, he said.

Egg white omelet, she said.

Two sets of eyeballs locked.

No one breathed.

The waitress fled as she watched them crack open.

Sit next to me, he said. I’ll play the bass line.

She sat and felt his warmth as

her fingers found their home next to his.

They are still playing.