For it is important that awake people be awake,

I know Saturdays by the rhythm of the chores I do; I know Sundays by the ritual of the newsletter.

Every other day is a blur; every day a new height of pandemic despair and a new low of humanity plumbed, and in the mids mostly work.

Every day I practice naming the joy. I hold on to the moments of reprieve: the amusements of the group text, the salve of the FaceTime calls with the people I trust the most, the solace of drinking tea and watching some high-stakes-but-low-stakes television as far as I can get from the little corner in which I make decisions all day.

I am still alive. I am still not sick. The people closest to me are still alive. They are still not sick. Over and over, like a mantra. Like a talisman. Like a prayer.