The underlying feeling woven through the fabric of my own pandemic experience is that of overwhelming fortune. We stayed home, stayed safe.  The sun shone, the plants grew. It was ok. For us, it was ok. We enjoyed the sunshine, the clear skies and the peace. I watched the cherry tree at the bottom of my garden blossom and I daydreamed about an end to the isolation. In contrast, the nights were hard.  

My square for the Covid Chronicle depicts the hours I spent awake in the dark and the silver trees I repeatedly dreamed of burned into my closed eyelids. I missed my family, my friends, the connection, the company.  Time pulled at the threads holding us together and keeping a firm grip on them felt increasingly exhausting.  The cherry tree, blossoming for the second time in lockdown, still an optimistic harbinger of change, its symbolism now overworked and faded.  Literally stitching my own story to that of others seemed like a perfect antidote to the disconnect I felt.  

My mother and I both creating our own squares sit in silence over video calls simultaneously stitching our own experiences into existence. A thin red thread connecting mine to hers.