We sit together watching TV. Really nothing on, but what else can we do? 
He can’t read any more. He speaks in a whisper, and doesn’t always know what he’s saying. 
But we’ve been together since 1981. As Eva Cassidy sings, we know each other by heart.

When Covid first started, I sweated nightmares about losing him to the lonely ventilator. How confused, how lost he'd feel.
The advent of the vaccine era smoothed the sharpest heart-hurting fears.  
Once, I wanted to sing Halleleujahs, like Christmas time.  
But I still saw the widow's walk before me.
Giddiness could not be my companion. 

I feel a tempered gladness because I believe we will make it together to the end. 
Even as his brain daily dies, no person, no pandemic rules will separate us before his end does.
So I feel serene enough about our fate, but always make out the sad violin in the background. 
Don't ask for euphoria. I cannot oblige.

For April 13, write a poem that joyfully states that “Everything is Going to Be Amazing.