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by Victoria Moffitt

The magnolia trees were in bloom when we were barred from the hospital and two weeks became twelve.

The sky shone a bright spring blue as 170 people gathered to celebrate a family wedding, one day before meetings of more than 50 were banned.

Petals tumbled in the wind in golden-dewed sunlight as my dad started wearing masks over masks and full-body suits to attend the births of babies.

A warm breeze drifted off the Schuylkill as a mother crashed in the ICU. She lived. Others didn’t.

And I sit in my house, painting an ocean with just as silent tides, dappling the colors as if it too glistens in the sun.