This tart sermon

This pandemic steals lives (RIP, Francisco Assis da Conceicao, and may all who loved you find peace) and it steals time and it steals, unapologetically and repeatedly.

I am sorry for your loss, I am sorry for all our losses

To survive we keep pretending: we pretend our way through each hour of grief, through each day of upheaval, through each week of uncertainty, through each month of novel disappointment.

We grasp at straws, turn up the music, pin all our hopes on consumerism and cashmere. We take turns being the strong one, providing the shoulder, whispering what we hope will be the right words. What is the right thing to say, when everything is this broken?