First, there is the waiting... then comes the mourning. Dawn creeping up over the horizon (which I would see if I had the view I once had instead of where I sit now, with too close city homes obscuring the world's awakening): Waiting & watching the night sky overrun by the pinkpurpleredorange sun storm…. followed by the inevitable busy-ness of an overflowing life. Once the wait is over, the mourning for what is lost settles Waiting for adulthood and independence… but chasing wisps of half formed reconstructions from my questionable memory Waiting for health to return to my son… but always hearing the rapid breathing of a small, struggling body Waiting for breath to flow freely… but fearing the accidental feel of a stranger’s warmth or the gentle touch in a crowded room Waiting for satisfaction and contentment… but accepting the reality of concessions Sober recognition of what is -- juxtaposed with what once was. You would think that would give rise to embracing each moment, the epiphany of survivors. But no. It brings the permanence of mourning: parents die children are vulnerable viruses speak an unknown language and questioning past choices creates dangerous contemplation.