Back in April 2020 when the virus was solidifying a firm grip on America and worldwide, I wrote a short story salute to hospital workers presented as a monologue of a nurse named Mariposa who was facing the psychologically taxing struggle of surviving another night and another day. I didn’t know it back then–indeed, nor did many of us–but our lives were about to get much, much more dangerous.

Part of it had to do with the Trump administration which was whistling past America’s sickness cemetery, talking about just hold on, it was going to disappear. But the virus was awfully persistent like stepping in it and getting stank on your shoe. The disaster of the corona-virus disease was not to be ignored. You could vainly try to walk on and pretend the odor wasn’t stinking up the place, pretend it was alright and going to shortly be gone. Pretend.

It’s the end of the year now. Thanksgiving is gone and Christmas is just ahead–and the intervening months between an earlier another spring and this terrible winter did not go well. Not well at all. Yes, there are vaccines about to drop but we are forced to face tough days and a couple of months of madness before there is any improvement.

Thankfully, political change is promised with the January  inauguration of a new Washington administration. Better must come, we’ve just got to get there–although getting there will be no walk in the park.

A majority of us are glad to see 2020 go and look forward not only to a new year and new hands on the political plow, we also hope that our lives will change for the better. Meanwhile, too many of us have died, numerous citizens are ill and economically destitute.

At the end of this “I’ll be glad when you’re gone, you rascal you”–year, I present a reprise of a sad, albeit hopeful, short story for consideration and as an affirmation of present day survival as well as future time prosperity.

Peace and, dare I say it, the optimism of believing there are better days ahead.