I think I can speak for just about everyone that 2020 can go get fucked. There is no need for any end of the year reviews for this colossal dumpster fire. 2020 is that pain in your leg you know exactly what it is but just let it fester. 2020 is that incoming phone call you know who it is but you'd rather not answer. It is that bug flying around inside the lampshade you just can't swat dead quick enough. It is that dryer you've been picking clean clothes for the next day out of for weeks on end. 2020 is that book on the nightstand someone gave you that you don't really feel like reading, but they keep asking you about it. 2020 is that monthly bill from that Fortune 500 company of the service you need but can't afford to pay. 2020 is that package marked FRAGILE but still got smushed into your mailbox. It is the garbage nobody else wants to bring to the curb. It is the knife that is now too dull to slice when you don't have a sharpener. It is the roommate eating all the food and drink you buy. 2020 is the web-based households dealing with frequent power outages. 2020 is that delivery person you explicitly told not to knock so as to not freak the dogs out, yet they knock anyway. 2020 is that toxic partner that tried to pin the blame on you. It is the Karen of hurricane season. It's the empty toilet roll you don't notice until you are pants off and sitting down. 2020 is a shelf in your fridge collapsing when you're not around to hear it. 2020 is all the insects, rodents, and other small creatures that somehow made it inside your home. 2020 is that all too closely tangible sequence of neighbors, a friend, a pet, and someone else you know suddenly dying. It is that deep sadness you bury, constantly, thinking the next time is going to be okay. And maybe it will be okay, later. Maybe there's hope. Maybe 2020 can just stay the fuck back there. Maybe it will be alright, for those of us who somehow made it this far. Another step into the batter's box, despite the score.
In the February tundra that is upstate New York, in a hospital room some eleven-hundred plus miles away from me, a doctor named Oleg signed off on my mother’s death certificate. She had been in and out of the hospital for a couple months, after falling repeatedly at the apartment. My father had to call 911 a few times to help get her to the emergency room, and after the third or fourth time falling they just kept her there. At some point, she broke her hip. Then she may (or may not have?) caught COVID in the hospital. She wasn’t vaccinated. There was talk of sending her back home (potentially with COVID) which sounded rather suspect coming from medical professionals. Things at home seemed rather unclear about hospice care, so sending her back with a serious pandemic diagnosis didn’t seem like a great idea. My father is vaccinated, but would still have needed to come into close contact with her constantly if she went home. That didn’t end up needing to happen. I flew to Alban...