It is not easy talking to folks during a pandemic. The old woman lives in a singlewide and I've seen her a few times on different days relaxing on a lumpy couch, in mesquite shade outside her place. Her comfort there, near The Outlaw Saloon, shows a view looking south at another trailer, and beyond that a barbed-wire-topped fence housing a dilapidated pick-up with a rusted canoe strapped atop. How she moves at quarter speed, lingering, hunched over, dusty white blouse, house-shoes and faded poly pants. Her drowsy German Shepard milling about in the cool February sunlight. When I look at her, a woman distressed by even her slightest body movement, a streak of impulsive affection rushes through me. How she could be like my mother, after my grandmother, hard-earned graces passed down through generations of Convent schools. The gentle way she mothers the dog, attends to a dark rectangle home, trimmed in fetching turquoise, the murky windows darkened by pulled shades, barricaded in by chainlink, and a sun-faded No Trespassing sign. It could be her hell, it could be her heaven.