Still, I long for my beloved communities, my family, the singing and sacred silence of church, the motley crowd of people who've joined us for dinner forever. I'm homesick for touch. I miss celebrations, good vibrations in the midst of grim times, and even loud celebratory noises. Loud noises scare off bad spirits. More than anything, I miss skin.

Left to my own devices, I am steeped in dread. But I am not left to my own devices: I have friends and an imagination. Since COVID-19, I first imagined us as our own planets. We could holy up our homes, with our cranky selves and those we're quarantined with, who can wear on our last nerve. But that was too large a canvas for me in my current condition. So I imagined my home as one of those glittery matchboxes friends have given me over the years, with Mother Mary on the cover, or Frida Kahlo, containing emblems of hope and faith: packets of healing dirt from Chimayo, an origami crane, a spray of dried bluebells, a heart.