Last night there was almost a full moon. A waning gibbous, on the way out. The last Cold Moon of a not too cold winter. 2020 is over at last, though of course nothing has changed. The ball dropped in Times Square (or so I’m told) without a crowd to witness the arrival of the new year. I was asleep. By morning, the updated tally of new cases and deaths from the virus reached new highs and the public health officials on the morning’s new shows predicted that January and February 2021 would be brutal.
Next year, they said. Next year, we will celebrate. But first… and they list all the things that need to change before life returns to normal.
And all anyone keeps saying is “Good Riddance to 2020.” Via Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, of course, because no one was supposed to gather, and if they did, it was in secret, and will inevitably have consequences.
In Florida, seniors lined the streets overnight hoping to get vaccinated, and this is only because the state government refused to listen to CDC guidelines which would have them giving the available doses to front-line workers and healthcare professionals. Health professionals all over the country are in despair, unvaccinated as they hold the hand of patients, too many of whom will die on their watch.
Once again, the US has bungled its response to the virus. Despite the impressive speed with which scientists developed, tested, and shipped vaccines, the lack of federal coordination and support to states and localities left millions of doses expiring in refrigerators, not yet reaching an arm. There is no use in assigning blame. So far, we learned this accomplished nothing. We are still waiting for the transition, clinging to hope that then things will change.
Melania (you knew I would get there) spent December redecorating Mar-a-Lago, preparing for a life after the White House despite her husband’s refusal to accept his defeat. When the first couple arrived at their southern abode for the holidays, Trump threw a hissy fit. He HATED the renovations, disparaged the dark wood and subtle color palette Melania had chosen, and demanded they rip out the renovations at once. Instead of hosting the annual black-tie New Year’s Eve party at his resort, he returned to the White House on Air Force 1, his hand resting on Melania’s back as he guided her past the cluster of journalists on the White House lawn. No one knows what he is up to. Her hair was less than perfect, and her face (well, you know the drill) revealed nothing.
So far. the only difference between 2020 and 2021 is that all of this seems normal. Who expected to be hugged at midnight, anyway? Resolutions won’t change anything. And who ever sticks to them anyhow? We are still holding our breath.
Instead of celebrating the New Year, I made a list of more significant dates.
January 5. The Georgia election.
January 6. The validation of the electoral college vote by the joint houses of congress.
January 20. The inauguration.
February (or maybe March) Our turn to be vaccinated.
April. My husband’s 75th birthday and my grandson’s 10th. Will we celebrate with family? Will I hug my grandson before he shakes off my approach with a precocious adolescent snarl?
Spring. Summer. Longer Days. Open windows. I calculate how long before they will come.
It's News Years Day, I can’t exhale.
News and activities from our writers and community.