Food shopping is becoming increasingly fraught in Portland. Only 75 people at a time are allowed in the large stores, and long lines stretch outside. At Hannaford, curbside pickup appears to be theoretical: I can shop online at its website; but when I try to check out, there are never any pickup times available. Whole Foods reserves home delivery for Amazon Prime members only, which is despicable. The small markets are good at curbside pickup, but they are generally more expensive than the supermarkets and they have fewer items. Still, they are my best option now, and I'm grateful I can walk or ride my bike to fetch a bag of lettuce or a loaf of bread. This morning I ordered 5 pounds of locally roasted coffee beans, and that pleased me as well. But what happens when I run out of cat litter?

Tom is packing his lunch and making his breakfast. It's still unclear how long his job site will stay open, but he presumes he'll be there all week. Paul and I will step back into our "usual" patterns--schoolwork and editing and trying to imagine the future. The day will be bright and warmish, and I'll hang sheets on the line.

I do need to work on a poem draft. I am not writing well, but at least the action of revision will be practice. My state of body and my creativity bear some resemblance to the grief sinkhole I was floundering in during my first year in Portland, when we perched in that apartment by the sea and I burst into tears once every hour. Heavy skin, unexplainable twinges, laborious visions. The garden helps with the body, but the visions continue to plod. And I'm not crying. I haven't cried even once. Maybe I would feel better if I did.

The thing is: we're okay, we're fine, we're even happy. We know how to live solitary lives. We are sufficient unto ourselves. I am good at managing a household. Tom is good at working without panic. Paul is good at school. The anxiety doesn't arise from the situation at hand so much as the miasma of the unknown.