I am still raw from the March 13th sting when we, terrified by a novel virus, canceled classes at the high school where I teach -- where my youngest attends -- and floored it home without a backward glance, locked ourselves up tightly, and refused to open for friend and stranger both. I forced smiles for all the kids in my care, "What an adventure!" it said. We got this. I got this.

Don’t misunderstand me: Sierra’s death is in here, waiting, like lava bubbling deep inside a sleeping volcano. It will have its day, as such losses do, whether I want it or not.

I am like him. When I am angry, my eyes flash contemptuously and I say nothing. I feel wrath and hatefulness and plan cruelty. It passes. I’m glad that is mostly all.

My mom is an immigrant from Quito, Ecuador. In Latinx culture, it’s common to treat a visit to the doctor like a visit to the mechanic. Something is wrong, you pay a professional to fix it...