i remember the morning the order came that said we had to stay at home. snow dusted the streets, coated the soccer field of my school a week before the equinox. my coworkers gathered around a computer to hear the governor say our schools would close, we would learn at a distance. i remember the morning i set up a workspace in our apartment. each of my computers started updating— spiraling dots, loading bars, flickering numbers. stuck sitting and waiting as the sun rose through the blinds, spruce leaves swayed in the wind. i remember an afternoon— maybe multiple— where i laid on the couch, papers to grade scattered on the coffee table. i turned away from them and watched warm light come in though the sliding glass door, flowers bloom in the planters across the alley. i remember the afternoon where i forgot what day it was after marking the day off the calendar in our kitchen, after checking my phone multiple times to make sure, even after saying it out loud. maybe time is one of those human constructs that only exists insofar as it is useful. matte grey sky gives way to patches of blue. crows peck at the garbage bag sticking out of our neighbor’s overstuffed bin. squirrels jump between the thin pine trunks outside the window by our mantle.