On the 157th night of coviding, the sapphire white lightning cracks the ocean waves ecstatic, you search for the chant of rain pellets that often accompanies the tempest- but there is none, this storm, she dances alone.

Her talon reaches across the parched cobalt sky. Light emitting jets and sprites, the thrilling petrifies you with each streaking. You both fall into an edgy slumber.

You wake up to day 158, where the storm is now inside your home. Distance learning kids with make shift desks on beds and sofas. Your footsteps cover inches, and feet, and yards of the hardwood floor, squeaking loudly as you tend to each shout of “Mama.” During zoom, your son squints under his glasses, so you order protective screens and pray his eyes survive the math lessons, the english lessons, the history lessons, and lessons on how to learn from the lessons.

You wear fashionable masks for grocery shopping, where other people also cover their faces and stand far away from you and don’t say hi.

When you look west to the coast, there is a grayness, stagnant. To the south you see plumes of smoke mushrooming from the ground up.

In a haste, you hate yourself for not adjusting to the overgrown hair, the children inside, the distance learning, the life distorting.

You pack bags and your life. you wait for evacuation alerts.

The wind and lightening control your fate. Blow the fire into the ocean, you tell them. Send down some rainwater. Please keep my world safe. You tell the Creator that you submit.

And with a surety that holds your tongue still against the roof of your mouth, you watch as the world around you slowly rolls into the imminent horror, and into the imminent end.

Around the 200th day of lockdown, the fires die down and green air is once again in abundance. Humility becomes your companion: your breath does not belong to you.

Your children play with rabbits and chickens in the backyard, where they don’t have to cover their faces. You unclench your fists, you square your shoulders, you prepare, knowing that somewhere within the giggles of joy that tickle your ears live the beginnings of hope.

You breathe a lungful of cognizance.

These are the joyful moments you want to capture with butterfly nets and save in your pocket, ready to use when tears threaten to fall. This joy, these small acts of resistance, is what bring you to your knees. You pull out your notebook and write and write about the might of jubilation and how it will change the world.