She pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. (Viola, Act 2 Scene 4 of Twelfth Night), William Shakespeare Grey days and silent streets states of emergency declared now a stay at home order keeps her at the window looking out— isolated once more. The news is grim—the cases climb— exponentially increase they say. She hurries to reconnect herself, hunches over, nose too near her screen, she becomes bug eyed, reading numbers of cumulative cases worldwide… ninety five million, eighty six thousand, two hundred as of today. Can she smell death, in spite of locked doors and closed windows? For don’t forget that two million thirty three thousand, three hundred and twenty of those people died worldwide---that she knows about. And how many more have passed away, been buried in a hurry or their records lost? Numbers do not mean much on this scale— pandemics dehumanize depersonalize— leave us all to absorb the horror on our own. Perhaps that’s why so many want to deny the facts, rebel against the edicts of government , the advice of medical experts, she thinks… Can she, and everyone, find such monumental patience as to carry them across uncertain times? As vaccine rollouts shudder and shake supplies are tangled in red tape. And logistics…. do they know what they’re doing, she worries And when will the world wake up to its need to mourn, come to terms with such enormous grief?