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The past year has been exceptionally kind to me; it has preserved my life. However, this fortunate outcome isn’t guaranteed; I could still succumb to the virus. The virus claimed the lives of two close companions, both younger than myself. One was our network’s sales director, a vibrant, energetic and optimistic individual, seemingly immune to this global health crisis. He was generous, offering congratulations during successful periods and celebrating new show sponsorships with me. He was financially successful, had a loving family, traveled extensively, and drove luxury vehicles. His health deteriorated rapidly, before vaccines were widely available; his immunity faltered, and he soon passed away while intubated unable to bid farewell to his loved ones.
The sudden and unexpected nature of the sales director’s passing shocked everyone at the network. This tragic event brought home the reality of a potential fatal outcome should I contract the virus. Shortly after, a physician who regularly provided on-air health advice also succumbed to the illness. He too, was prosperous and affluent, owned a medical clinic, and was in his early fifties. Further, he was a seasoned athlete, a mountaineer who had scaled impressive peaks. Ironically, the very person dispensing advice on avoiding infection, fell victim to it. His passing brought a wave of profound sorrow and a concealed fear of mortality to our workplace.
My daughter’s infection in New York was another jarring experience. Fortunately, she had received her vaccinations. She endured a grueling, two-week ordeal, but eventually
My siblings prohibited his air travel. Consequently, I missed seeing her this year. She aimed to visit, but her offspring disallowed her journey, confiscating and concealing her passport due to her clandestine travel plans. Unable to journey, she found solace in daily walks: attending morning mass, conversing with shop staff at the supermarket, and enjoying tea with friends. “God safeguards me,” my mother declared, “His will be done, whether in heaven or here; I fear nothing.” She remained healthy and survived. Persuading her for vaccination proved challenging, yet ultimately, she complied, though with skepticism. This year, though excellent, could’ve been better; I now yearn for her presence and question foregoing a Christmas visit.
Christmas family gatherings were avoided due to travel anxieties, a fear rekindled. Post-vaccination, we’d enjoyed summer jaunts, utilizing school holidays. However, the resurgence of the pandemic and stricter travel rules rendered air travel impractical; not just due to infection risks, but the myriad inconveniences: pre-flight, arrival, and departure screenings, coupled with the potential for our homeland’s government to abruptly close airports—a terrifying ordeal my older daughters endured during a pandemic peak; stranded, unable to leave their chaotic homeland for weeks, even months, escaping the absurdity of their inept politicians—those who prioritize seizing individual freedoms over personal autonomy.
Thus, we remained on our tranquil island, basking in unexpectedly mild winter weather. Our daughter, during her school break, diligently studied with tutors, preparing for a demanding upcoming exam; one hopefully securing her a private school place, having attended the island’s public school for five years—not due to parental frugality, but proximity; always believing the ideal school is the nearest. Our daughter, burdened by studies and tutoring, struggles with math and reading. Seeing her ten-year-old curriculum shocked me; the complexity surpassed my comprehension. It far outweighed the university entrance exams I faced forty years prior at a self-proclaimed Catholic institution, while I was an avowed non-Catholic. I intended to study law, but soon found it tedious. Choosing fiction writing over law, a path perhaps pleasing my parents, proved a less miserable life trajectory. Forty years on, I still write and speak, two avenues to life’s resistance against death.
This year’s hotel party near us will remain unvisited.
Past New Year’s gatherings have been far from joyous occasions. The events were truly dreadful, leaving me with only unpleasant recollections. The attendees, ostentatious and self-absorbed, engaged in a tasteless display of wealth, showcasing their expensive possessions in a vulgar competition. The music was an incessant, jarring assault on the ears, played by a band of self-proclaimed virtuosos. The songs were crude and boisterous, more suitable for a penitentiary than a celebratory event. Mountains of food were consumed by already satiated guests, a gluttonous spectacle. The dancers, clearly lacking skill, executed clumsy routines that would have been better suited to a humorous television segment. In short, those New Year’s parties were wretched, prompting a vow to avoid them this year. We’ll celebrate at home, enjoying quiet companionship and the comfort of our pets as the clock strikes midnight.
Next year, I harbor several hopes, if such wishes aren’t considered excessive: that our family remains healthy and avoids serious illness, thus preventing cancelled trips and the continued need to wear masks; that my mother and I can reunite without interference; that our daughter gains acceptance into a reputable private school; that my job security remains intact; that my novel, imbued with high expectations, concludes successfully and finds appreciative readers; that we can travel to London early in the summer and Frankfurt later that season; and that as December arrives, we can proclaim, as we do now, that we are all alive, thriving, mutually affectionate, and in good health, without financial worries—essentially, that we are content. But let’s whisper this sentiment, a clandestine expression, lest we invite misfortune.
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