we’re driving through Northern California headed to the Purim spiel and it’s almost spring. The way spring marches into California makes everything look stupidly beautiful. I’m reading this book called SoundMachine and your sister calls from the east to ask which brand of toilet paper to buy during quarantine. In fact I can’t remember exactly what she is asking because I am too busy trying not to meddle in anyone’s business. Stand 5 or 6 feet away, they say, no shaking hands or hugging. When you …

I woke up to fog this morning. So thick, we couldn’t see the cars from the front door. This wouldn’t be so strange if I were still in San Francisco, but I’m not. The air grew so smokey at the end of August that I was afraid to make the short journey from my rented bedroom to nearby Glen Canyon. The stillness drove me insane. The fact that my shut-tight room was still inundated with the scent of fire and plastic melting against bone did not help. So, I flew back to my parents’ home and my brother …

Suppose these streets were yours, and mine: what would it profit us? I take up my small space, my paltry plot, and clutch the deadbolt on my gate, whispering “Thank God.” I could do much worse than stewing in safety, stirring around my apartment all through daylight and ladling into bed each night. I am not a survivor—I just keep on waking up. Wouldn’t I be mad to invite the out-there into these walls... I can watch you (and me in some other world; body) anytime, taking back these streets for a …