Yesterday, a friend who is also my writing teacher called from the edge of Crystal Lake, where she sat and needed to talk to someone besides her family. It was in the 60’s and beautiful.

I mumbled about how mask-making was interfering with working on my manuscript — how it was a conflict.

“Dee Mallon?” she quipped. “In conflict?”

I laughed. “Yeah. Who would I be without my conflicts?”

I’d like to know.

Such good writing is emerging from this peculiar time. One of today’s prompts was to write about homesickness.

Here’s a little of what I wrote:

Out on the street, I would wander in a drapey tank top, necklaced, smiling, hugging every passerby, strangers and friends alike. Heads bent toward each other, the smell of skin every time like going home. …