From the depths of my grief, I can only imagine yours. Lives so deeply entwined suddenly ripped asunder. I sleepwalk through my days, alternately numb and racked with pain. But I create for myself small joys, like fresh flowers in my bathroom. A small cap worn rakishly askew on my head.

So I think it is with you.

I make the drinks you post the recipes for and listen to the music you mention. I read “Consolations.” Then I cry as friends hold me in their arms.

So I hope it is with you.

I wear a bright color on my toenails – one I would NEVER would have chosen “before” – so that I smile when I catch a glimpse of them. I make a list of things that make me happy and choose one whenever I grow too apathetic, too overflowing with sadness.

So I trust it is with you.

I remind myself of the story of the man who has fallen into a deep hole. Someone hears his cries for help and jumps in. “What have you done? Now we’re both down here.” “Yes,” says the second man. “But I’ve been here before and I know the way out.” I’ve been deep in grief before, I remind myself. And I know the way out. It is long and filled with intense suffering. But through is the way out. Through is the way out.

The neighborhood air is scented by fresh buds of jasmine. At the plant store, gardenia bushes too have begun to bloom.

Arriving back home, the rose bushes are a riot of blossoms. Maggie, my climber and the one with the strongest perfume, also displays the most vivid color. Deep fuchsia.

After I nestle the lantana into their ceramic pots, I discover that my gardenias, planted last fall, in fact survived February’s hard freeze. Tiny shoots curl at the base of stems turned brown by prolonged cold.

Sometimes new life springs from what appears dead.

Biking home yesterday, I stopped on the side of the road. A chaste tree was in full bloom, purple spires punctuating the greenery. I rubbed a leaf to transfer the spicy fragrance to my fingertips.

A block farther on, I heard the call of a treefrog from a nearby ditch. I spent several minutes, peering into the agae-laced water but could not find the small vocalist.

Before getting back on the bike, I put my fingers to my nose. Alas! The perfume was already gone.

Two and a half months into the stay-at-home. I’ve been biking every day for a month. Today a heavy rain and strong winds meant I went out in the early evening instead of the afternoon. Twigs and wet leaves litter the ground. Yesterday a hummingbird plant was backlit in the setting sun, a burning bush […]

A bitter cold snap has warmed and now the trees and the end of my block are shrouded in fog. I walk through air that still has a crisp bite. I walk quickly past frost-blackened foliage.  Somewhere a rooster crows and crows again. The Christmas lights have disappeared from my neighbors’ roofline but red velvet bows still dangle, askew, on their fence. I stop at my own fence. An icy coat has melted and left my rose bush aglitter with droplets of water. A frozen rosehip glows like a jewel.