On the April night when John Prine died, my father and I stayed up until 2:30 a.m. I was quarantining in my parents’ apartment in Massachusetts, a thousand miles from my home in Nashville. Eleanor and I had come up for a week in early March, and a week had turned into a month, then a month into the borderless present. It was still early days, but even then the concepts of early and late had begun to blur around the edges, like words in a language we were all starting to unlearn.
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