350,421 people in the United States have died of the pandemic so far. All the signs point to the worst being still in front of us. And believe me, I am not happy about it, having every chance of being one of the future victims of this thing.
And I can’t join in with the chorus of those bidding a fond farewell to 2020 in the hopes of better times ahead—as I’ve indicated, I strongly suspect that those of us who survive will soon be looking back on 2020 as a golden age. In view of what’s ahead, I feel more like clinging onto 2020 with both hands as a drowning survivor clings to whatever piece of refuse floats nearby in the hopes of staving off the inevitable termination.
Admittedly, my attitude may be colored by my situation—a shoulder, wrist, and knee all painfully not fully functional—and by deaths in my family and beyond, but nobody who has a right to an opinion, nobody who actually knows what he or she is talking about, is holding out any hope for a quick recovery, or a bright 2021. So, you know, seasoned greetings or whatever, and maybe I’ll see you on the other side. Hang in there regardless.