“Don’t worry,” the mob said, “Grandma is safer than ever.”
Except my grandmother wasn’t. She died “recovering” in a skilled nursing facility a week-and-a-half after a fall at home broke her neck. From walking and talking, my 88-year-old grandmother deteriorated into a catatonic state in quarantine. Her family was instructed to socially distance for her health and safety.
“Why didn’t you come see me?” my grandmother cried the first night, alone.
Less than a dozen-and-a-half of us stood six feet apart in a semicircle surrounding my grandmother’s casket as the protesting masses roared across the nation and hundreds attended the funeral of an ordinary man no more accomplished than our dearly beloved. One by one, the shedding tears fell beneath our masks.