Yesterday was Thanksgiving and today I woke up almost unable to talk. Laryngitis, or was it COVID-19 come calling?
As I type these words, I don’t know the answer to the question. I have spoken to my doctor’s nurse and am awaiting the doctor’s call.
In the background I can hear cars streaming along I-20 in a rush to Black Friday sales, events somewhat curtailed this year, but present nonetheless. At the convenience store yesterday, I waded through an unmasked crowd to buy something I could have lived without.
Just now got the call back from my doctor and he said it doesn’t sound like COVID-19 symptoms to him. He’s calling in some medicines for me and I am to check in with him next week if things take a turn for the worse.
Dodged a bullet?
I don’t really know yet.
Either way it goes any dodging is only temporary.
I suppose it’s a matter of perspective. But the only place we can stand is with our feet planted in finitude, a wind-blown, wave-shattered outcropping on the edge of a dark ocean.
Either that or with our feet in the roaring stream where there is neither life nor death, knowledge nor ignorance, tomorrow nor yesterday.
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