Looking out my Backdoor: Merry Christmas

The phone rings. I grab my mask with one hand and the phone with the other. “Merry Christmas.”

My new habit. Masking has become automatic. Before I leave the house I grab a mask, even if I’m going to the clothesline, expecting to see not one other person. I go masked. Just in case.

I’m locked and loaded. In the holsters on the belt around my waist, a spray bottle of disinfectant rides on one hip and extra masks, gloves and a tape measure for distance — OK, the tape measure is a joke — and hand sanitizer on the other.

Overkill? Now that is an interesting word. So, yes, I’d say the coronavirus COVID-19 is in serious overkill. Is there a one of us not affected?

In my other lives, before I came to Mexico and eased into my quiet solitude, I was active in many groups. I have friends in all walks of life. Friends who have had mild cases and recovered. I have friends who’ve died from the virus.

One neighbor here has a nephew hospitalized over a month. Another, her brother-in-law hovers near death. Another, his close friend died yesterday. One friend whose sister died. All from this novel virus.

My son has been several days in the hospital, again, this time with brain seizures from the virus. I just heard this morning he is home again, but rough around the edges. What does that mean? I don’t know. Will he recover? Will he be disabled? I don’t know.

I’m terrified. I’m angry. Just saying, in case you think I am a mild-mannered Clark Kent sort.

’Tis the Season, peace, good will to all. I’m having a hard time being jolly.

Despite my helplessness, despite my inability to fly north, kiss my son’s owies and make them go away, I have hope. I know Ben is getting the best of doctor care.

In the grand scheme of life, this is not about me. I am one little bitty cog in the works, yet connected to an entire world of other cogs, all of us feeling fear and hope, love and rage, loss and love. Love. Yes, I said love twice because I don’t want to lose sight of love.

The world is in a sorrowful place. Again. Not for the first time. Not for the last. Just again.

We feel weary. We feel worn. Helpless, yes, sometimes we feel hopeless. Tomorrow is Christmas Day. I wanted to write something warm and fuzzy today for you. Every column I write is from my heart, even when my heart is hurting.

Despite differences, we humans seem to be able to come together, to connect, to help each other, to grieve together, to rejoice together. Together. To love. Most importantly, to love. Merry Christmas.

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].