We bid old friends goodbye.
Those years are as gone as the water running down the kitchen drain. There are no returns. You can’t recycle them for slightly used ones. And now I’m left with anger at those who could have helped stop the virus in its tracks, but for political and religious ideology, conspiracy thinking, and just plain ignorance, they stole my years as well as the lives of the unfortunate 700,000 American souls who have died.
In those dark and awful moments, I knew fear, loss, and grief. I understood the horror of Covid.
The odds of being struck by lightning in a given year are only around 1 in 500,000—a better chance than winning the lottery, but still not very common.
So I wonder, amidst all this life in bloom: will I be an annual or a perennial?