One Every Minute

Come. Gather your courage, all of it, and come with me. We're going to walk to the edge of disaster. We're going to find the chasm that's swallowing our neighbors, one by one.

Who knows when it began? It was so small, just a tiny crack that appeared in the road. The next day, a little wider, then wider still. Then it began to move, snaking along, opening wider, like a hungry mouth. Down the road toward a town in the distance, moving faster now.

Then people began to disappear.

It crept through the town and into a nursing home, and soon first one, then another were swallowed without a sound. It darted down the highway and wormed its way into a city, and soon hundreds, thousands of people were tottering, clutching to the edge, falling out of sight with a despairing wail. Now it had a name.

Pandemic. Such a clean, quiet word. Shouldn't we just call it what it is?

Plague.

In a way, it's the kind of math problem you learned in school. Question: Johnny is sick. He coughs, and gives it to two friends. They each pass it on to two friends. If it continues this way, how many people will be dead in six days? Six weeks? Six months? Answer: 170,000 and counting, in our country alone.

One thousand of our neighbors in America are dying every day. That's one every minute. Every minute. The numbers click upwards, one by one.

We're getting closer now - see it there, not far ahead? That jagged line of death? It's like a long streak of lightning, branching into every state, right through the heart of our country.

Careful! The ground's not as firm as it looks. You think you're safe, and suddenly you find you're sliding into the abyss. And if you reach out for help, you'll only pull someone you love down with you,

One every minute.

*CLICK*

While you were reading this, one of our neighbors has died.

He was a grandfather, a veteran, He endured a long life of hard work and poverty; his lungs were weak and he was too poor to pay for insurance. Easy prey. His kids and grandkids wept and watched him die on a screen held by an exhausted nurse.

It didn't have to be that way. We know the cliff is here. Why isn't there a fence? Why are we all standing so close?

Last night, as I stood under trees tossing in the wind, I thought I heard them overhead: a cloud of sorrow, whispering their names in the night. My life, my life, they said. I didn't have to die, they said. Remember me, they said. Then they were gone.

Why aren't we allowed to grieve, all together? There should be black flags at half mast, calling of names, flowers on graves, candles flickering, speeches, a day of grieving. Instead, they just disappear, reduced to a number.

170,000 people. That's enough people to fill a city. Imagine Kansas City left deserted, with empty houses and empty streets, and not a sound but the wind. Or what if a bomb were to fall on Madison, or Green Bay, and take out every person? If that were to happen, there would be cries of anguish, headlines, outrage. Instead, there's just the simple click as the number rises.

The world looks on, awed, as more and more die, while we go about our business on the edge, cold with dread. The unheard, unseen loss continues. Being the frail fools we humans are, we pretend that it's over and dance on the brink.

*CLICK*

Another person is dead.

She was a teacher, hair greying but still vigorous. She spent long hours working during the lockdown, struggling to engage children on computer screens, longing to be with the students she cared about. Her district voted to open the schools, and she took a deep breath and walked into the classroom and was gone.

The cold, hard fact is this: those numbers you see every day are a lie. All of them, every one, were real, warm, interesting people, loved by someone. They were someone's granddad, a beloved daughter, a neighbor, a dear friend. They were doctors, teachers, bus drivers, cooks. He was a young runner, struck down with cancer, on his way to recovery; she was a loving grandmother, with years of vigor before her. A teenager, a homeless man living under a bridge; a Black nurse working extra shifts, a clerk in the grocery store. If we had protected them, they would still be here.

Isn't it time, past time, to stop and say their names? Every single one of them, even if the saying would go on and on, stretch into days and weeks, like the slow, steady beat of a drum, a heart counting its last moments. We need to say their names and tell their stories.

And most of all, more than anything, we need to speak for them. We know, I think, what they would say, if they could. They'd say: don't let it go on. Don't let any more be lost. Stop it, whatever you do.

Stop. Stand before our leaders and demand their action. We're bleeding to death, drop by drop, and it won't stop unless we have the courage to stand on the edge and stare into the darkness. If we all face the truth and then act, we can end this.

And when the last one dies, when the counter slows and stops, we'll hold that day of mourning and grieve.

Until then, stay safe.

*CLICK*