When I was eight, The Great Recession began. During it, I heard a line that floated off the page of a poem and into me “We hope the world survives.” – Hope – I remember that and the nights I spent sat up on the uncomfortable wheezy wooden floor of my home constructing a new one from Legos, where I could see by way of a light switch not a Coleman lantern. Where I could eat by way of a real stove top not a portable one. You’d think that I was camping, not sweating in the stagnant air of a house devoid of power. Now, a virus moves unseen among grass beneath out feet, flirts between the vacancy of embraces and the fear of a handshake. We speak words underneath masks and hope – that this, will be over soon.