We sit in plastic chairs six feet apart around a fire pit. Daniel doesn’t sit. He’s too busy adding twigs and branches to the fire. The smoke is blowing in my face. I move my chair but then I am too close to Carmine. Or too close to Fredo. It goes like that … the wind, the fire, the virus.

Lisa tells us that there are hundreds of people in jail awaiting their day in court for a nonviolent offense. The courts are backed up (currently closed); people can’t pay their bail or court fees. They wait, locked up. A log jam only adds to overcrowding. Lisa is tasked with trying to arrange “compassionate release” for those who quality under a “COVID-19 Presumptive Release Act,” though compassion in the prison system runs a distant second place to the non-compassion of red tape and wary judges. Now, you could die for selling drugs or shoplifting a case of beer or, god forbid, having an outstanding warrant.

We have the pantry overflow in the corner of our bedroom: Paper towels, spaghetti sauce, oatmeal, wild rice, boxes of Effie’s oatcakes, a case of New Zealand wine. We plan to not go hungry or thirsty in the next months. Plus, a gift basket arrived with treats like chocolate-covered macaroons. We already ate half. Sorry.

So, now when people ask us how we are doing, we can’t complain. We really can’t which doesn’t stop us from complaining. Maybe not complaining, more like worrying. Not about ourselves except sometimes about ourselves. The fear and worry that hangs out just underneath the surface jelly of security. We fear losses to come. We fear for those who are in despair. We fear for those who are sick. We fear the death of those we love. And ourselves, the absolute fear of an alone death wrapped in blue plastic.

A farmer grows fields of string beans. The restaurants, his customers, are closed. He plows under his fields of string beans — too expensive to pick. Thousands of people are lined up waiting for food distributions. What’s wrong with this picture?

We do a Zoom Seder. After the rituals, I ask a question. I always do. Passover is a ritual of questions, after all. This year, I ask, “If the liberation of an enslaved people came from plagues delivered upon Egypt, what liberation might COVID-19’s pandemic bring? Our 8-year-old says, maybe there will be less school and more time to fish. The 10-year-old notes that the environment is getting better. Dolphins are swimming in the canals of Venice. He gets an agreement gesture from others in their frame. The 20-somethings talk about how they are slowing down. Finding things to do besides consuming. Someone else is more optimistic that the November election will usher in a new president with a capacity for truthful leadership and human compassion. So, it goes. We make our way across the Red Sea and hope for something in the way of a contemporary miracle: Justice. Equity. Universal health care.

Meanwhile, in the weeks to come, many of us will stay siloed in our homes, wear masks at the grocery store, keep our six feet-plus distance when we visit with our children and grands. We will monitor our news cycles intakes, contain our fears, shed our tears and appreciate the pink blossoming trees.

Ruth Charney is a resident of Greenfield.