I didn't know then, on the slow drive across the plains, the stillness of February would twist into a pandemic in March.

I didn't know then, sitting in my apartment in April, I would forget the pandemic when I got the call that my dad was in a serious accident. She didn't say on the phone, "He will be alright" and neither did I for the next four hours calling person after person, my legs shaking compulsively.

I didn't know then, driving back and forth from a hospital entrance in April where the coming and going or Dad's faint satellite call would lead, if hope had not clung to every sunrise.

I didn't know then, in the last week of May, my recovering Dad would nod his injured head while I told him, "I'm applying for grad school."

I didn't know then, I would be imagining a new beginning in the state I drove across in February, four months ago.

I don't know if I am accepted yet, or where this adventure will lead. But I am learning faith is a friend if you allow it and prayers cast when you and others are anything but "alright" are most honest. I'm learning that instead of being lost in tension or wrongs or sadness you can shed your burdens.

Let the drum of every sunrise carry you onward.