I know I’m not alone in my trippy-dippy relationship with time this past year. Days flow one into the other, a weekend indecipherable from a weekday. It’s April, no June, January?!—it’s all the same as we want to fast forward to better times and yet are stuck on groundhog day.

Watching this hawk eat a mouse, I hopelessly wished it were the mouse in our bedroom wall that’s woken me up every night this week.

And then they came to the end. Or at least the start of a new chapter…

It’s bad. Physically, mentally, emotionally, socially, I am deteriorating.

You’re with me, right??

It’s slow and insidious, but it’s happening.

The second time I heard the story about George Floyd on the radio, it was probably Wednesday, May 27, I had to rush over and turn it off. I couldn’t listen to him gasping, “I can’t breathe.” I couldn’t hear a voice that I knew was killed moments later.

The wins and losses, so far, of quarantining.

I haven’t wanted to write. What is there to say, really? Nothing seems terribly insightful, relevant or new. It’s all being said on the news, social media, in conversation and text: this is a strange, scary time and I can’t wait for it to be over. And yet.

Every once in a while, I have one of those nights that reminds me exactly why we live in Brooklyn. Why we don’t move somewhere where we can triple our square footage while also halving our cost of living (give or take… you know what I mean).