Remember Us?

Dear Everyone Else,

You know, I almost liked it better when we were all marooned.

There we were, each on our separate islands, all of us in sight of each other. At least I could see you over there, puttering around. Some days we'd wave at each other, or shout, "How ya doin'?"

Time passed - OK, really, really slowly, but at least it passed. We sat on the beach and watched the waves. You tossed rocks into the water. I built really lame sand castles, and then watched them wash away in the rising tide. One day you wrote an SOS in seaweed.

Then - hooray! The authorities sounded the sirens. All Clear! (actually, it sounded more like "Who Cares?"), and all around me, people cheered and ran to their boats. They revved up their motors and chugged away toward the mainland. In the distance I could hear wild parties. Shouting. Fireworks.

Except.

Except for the rest of us.

You know, all of us old people. And anyone who's sick, or frail.

Remember us? We're still out on our islands, trying to stay alive.

Oh, I go in to town to buy groceries and all, but it doesn't feel safe when my neighbors won't wear masks. When I hurry down store aisles and they stroll by, smiling and chatting, I find myself fuming, and walking faster, grabbing the things I need so I can get back to the safety of my island again.

But I get it, I suppose. Masks are such a pain to wear, and it's all over, right? And who cares about old people, anyway? Or sick kids? Why should I care about keeping those people safe? They're not my problem.

I can sympathize; we've all been starving for contact. But from one of your folks who are still marooned, I sure wish you'd all think a little bit about us - the ones who need your protection. Just a mask, and a little consideration. It's not that much to ask.

A funny thing happened today, though. I was sitting on my beach today, staring gloomily out at the mainland, when suddenly I saw a bottle bobbing not far off, drifting in on the tide. I jumped to my feet and waded out as fast as I could, and finally I managed to grab hold of it and stagger back to shore.

When I held it up and peered inside, I could see there were sheets of paper inside, all rolled up. I fumbled with the cork and finally pulled it out with a pop, and fished out them out.

It was a list. Every sheet was a long, long list of names.

My name is Dominic. I have asthma. If I get the coronavirus virus, I could die.

My name is Janet. I'm taking immunosuppressant drugs for my cancer therapy. If I get the coronavirus, I might die.

My name is Carlos. My son is autistic. If he gets the coronavirus, he might die.

My name is Ann. My mom is in a nursing home. If she gets the virus, she might die.

My name is Richard. My daughter has Down's Syndrome. If she gets the coronavirus, she might die.

My name is Eleanor. I'm 85. If I get the coronavirus, I might die.

Page after page, name after name.

I thought a minute, then pulled out a pencil. I added my name, rolled them back up, stuffed them back in the bottle and jammed the cork down tight. The tide will be changing soon, and then I'll walk out into the water a ways and toss it out as far as I can.

This is for you, out there on the mainland, watching your fireworks. Yes, you. We see you, crowded in bars, jostling in crowds and laughing in store aisles. You can't see us, but we're still here, and we need you to care. Our lives depend on it.

Please. Stop. Walk away from the crowd and out onto the shore. Look at all those islands, with their flickering, patient lights. And if you see a bottle, floating in on the tide, care enough to wade out and scoop it up, and read our names.

We're counting on you. Don't fail us.