They’re talking about new spikes in Brooklyn and Queens. They’re talking about the president’s taxes, how he grifted, dodged, and only paid $750 when he bothered to pay anything at all. His supporters think this is proof that he’s clever because our system rewards those who know how to strip the bones clean.
Meanwhile, we stand on dots spaced six feet apart while waiting to deposit a check or pay for groceries. Sometimes this feels perfectly normal after six months of pandemic living. Other times it’s like a cold wave crashing over my head, the shock of just how much we’ve lost and how quickly life has been remade. If I’ve gleaned anything from keeping this glum journal throughout this year, it’s that I keep returning to the language of grief. It seems like the closest reference point for being pushed into new terrain.
Anger or compassion? The answer must be compassion because it’s so much harder.
