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The Absence of Light

March 26, 2021

37 of 40

The Sun and Fog contested

The Government of Day —

The Sun took down his Yellow Whip

And drove the Fog away —

Emily Dickinson

Not night, dawn or day. It’s Fog.

Yet another grinding metaphor bolted to a Day In The Year of Lent. We know light is there, we can see it, but we can’t. We know that it’s day. But not really.

We know the sun comes through. But not yet.

I hear “Congratulations!” oathed to those who did nothing, found a place, got a shot, then another. Staying alive is the Prime Directive. It is a goal, but is it a triumph?

I am, today, street legal. Two weeks since my second jab. But masked up, careful. We go inside a restaurant tonite. We feel just a bit guilty. But for no reason, beyond still being in the fog of plague.

Achievement is not survival, but both are good. We went through risk, and did not screw up enough to get sick, let alone die or infect others. Traffic jambs now happen. I go to safe, masked, distant meetings. More and more there have been shot, too. At what point is it a Memorial Ritual? We await others to tell us. As we have for a year.

We are leaving this year of fog. Not soon enough. And there will be new metaphors. But Easter is next week, made greater metaphor this year than any since 1946. Thirty years of record church attendance followed, because we touched death.

I did not touch death. And God never left. I never had patience, but I had an understanding that I did not understand. For both plague, and God, and, really, the fog.

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