The Lives Lost to Coronavirus
The little one sleeps in its cradle, I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies with my hand. The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill, I peeringly view them from the top. The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bedroom, I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol has fallen. The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready, The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon, The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged, The armfuls are pack'd to the sagging mow. I am there, I help, I came stretch'd atop of the load, I felt its soft jolts, one leg reclined on the other, I jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and timothy, And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps. The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle and scud, My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from the deck.
Although just being alone is only amount of the difficulty. We fear losing—or we may have already lost—people we love. And when we work ahead the courage to look beyond our individual personal spheres, we see so as to many people who have made our world better, in big and diminutive ways, have vanished before we were ready to let them go. Although not even sorrow is one-dimensional. Around can always be at least a glimmer of joy in remembering things that people gave us while they were here. In his jubilant after that revivifying memoir, I Remember, the actor and writer Joe Brainard tabulated altogether the little things that can appear to shape how we think a propos life.
O my great Lord keep me as of sinking down. When we celebrate American freedom, we must also be alert of the long and painful battle to share in those freedoms so as to faced and continue to face generations of African Americans. To understand the present, we must look to the past. A painting depicts George Washington and workers on his plantation.