Jojin Van Winkle

After driving 436 miles in March, passing through hot southern states and cold northern states, pumping gas with gloves on and holding my breath behind a scarf, in the women's room I scrubbed my hands raw.


I quarantined myself at home. To keep you safe. To keep your lungs intact. To keep us as us. I listened to you over our video chats, watching for any signs of the unseen.


Now, weeks later, furloughs wax while PPEs wane. We reach out through the delicate fiber optics to make our remote lives real. Uncertainty binds us together.

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