All summer grab a mask were the words lingering on my lips 
out the front door if we were walking, biking, driving, if we were 
going anywhere and man, did I want to go somewhere, anywhere
safe where we could breathe without choking on salmon wildfires
torching homes, pine thickets, and whispered dreams.

All summer my son wielded a scythe in our backyard pacing our 
fence line batting evil dwarves, ogres, beasts invisible like a 
virus felling thousands, bodies buried without an audience.

All summer I waited for the signal it was safe to return to
kissing, clinking glasses, sharing a bowl of mussels with a 
lover, you see I didn’t want to get my hopes up
but then I missed the window—I mean, the ark.

All summer I taught writing with a side of hope to drifting 
student eyes on a blurry screen and say you can find meaning
here in the ether, I gift you these words uttered before, may 
you plant them in your own garden beds, loves.

All summer I dreamed of my children’s schools spilling over
with skipping feet, recess finally returning, double Dutch battles, 
flying ponytails, orange balls arcing toward once-empty 
hoops, fevered shouts, wild laughter, reminding me you are 
still alive, you are still alive.
​​The daughter of Chinese immigrants, Jen Soong grew up in a small town in New Jersey and has been on the hunt for extraordinary stories for as long as she can remember. An alum of Tin House and VONA, her writing has appeared in The Washington Post, The Audacity, GAY MAG, Manifest-Station, Entropy, Jellyfish Review, Cosmonauts Avenue, and Waxwing. She holds an MFA in creative writing from UC Davis. Her memoir-in-progress is about family ties, depression and the silences we learn to break.
header credits: Noah Syed via Unsplash