From a distance

That may be the last view of the world beyond my windows that I will have for a while, a quiet little rural island in the Columbia River, viewed from a bank on the Oregon side of the river.

We're back in Portland, Sue at her house, me in my apartment. My building is now locked, no outsiders allowed in except to deliver necessities. Staff are still on duty, wiping down door handles and elevator buttons, keeping watch, constantly disinfecting surfaces. We don't know how long this will last. My son wants me to shelter at his house, and I hear and appreciate his concern. Flatten the curve. Best practices. Listen to the voices of people in Italy. Keep the family together. 

I want to stay in my peaceful, quiet little two rooms with a view of the whole city and the wide sky. With books and music that I love and a phone and a computer for virtual conversations, it's all such a great privilege really. 

We can have "school," I suggest to Bella and her father, via Facetime or WhatsApp. I have a good supply of food. (Who knows how much one person needs for two weeks? How much brown rice? How much tahini? How many tins of peaches?) I am grateful to have my safe, warm, indoor space, kindly guarded and disinfected. I wish all the houseless people could have this. 

Sue is committed to care for Eliana tomorrow and Wednesday, and parts of the rest of the week, because Eliana's parents are in the middle of moving from their rented house to a house they just bought--their moving day is March 21. We sit with the realities and try to take them in. I have back-blipped to March 13.