Dear Wigleaf,     

Hello from my bedroom. Our minds go to the places now where our bodies long to follow but can't. We dream of life on the outside and fear it. We've looked out our window to see a sky the color of coffee lightened by milk and beyond it to an expanse of stars, planets, comets, and a pink moon, tinged orange through the smoky haze of fires. So distant and yet close.

When I was hospitalized for a month once—my lungs decided to take a vacation or something, you know how it is—wildfires burned outside the window then, too. The nurses and doctors and I apologized to each other for our constant coughing. They increased my oxygen as it continued to desaturate. I facetimed with my children who were home because schools were closed due to the poor air quality.

They asked about the small tubes in my nose and if the oxygen tank beside me was my own personal rocket. They told jokes that made us laugh and then we cried together when I said no, can't come home just yet. But one cool thing, I told them, is I have to bring some of these rockets with me when I do. They won't let me leave here without them.

In those days, all I wanted was home. These days, all I want is just one moment anywhere else.

Have you been to a rainforest? Where the trees breathe and when you look up, you see more leaves and fog than sky? The air is all dewy and your skin is soft. The birds and monkeys are so loud you can't think. It can be nice not to think. We should meet up there sometime. You know, when "this is all over".

until then,
Anna