The Year That Wasn't
My husband and I had just turned 60 when out of the blue he queried, “Do you realize that if we live to be 80 (a respectable old age), we only have 20 summers left?” Tumbling deeper down the rabbit hole, he continued, “… and 18 Christmases… and 18 Easters…”
I didn’t flinch at first, but within minutes I had to pull the plug on his prediction when the reality of what he was saying hit me. I was compelled to come down hard with a new marital maxim; “Whooa, please don’t ever count the number of anythings we have left in our life together again!” His first response was to laugh at my request, but I could tell by his face that he too found it unsettling to fast forward us into the grave so willy-nilly. “Okay, okay… no more rushing time.”
The notion of applying a number to anything so quickly cyclical in our life together felt a little ominous; one minute I’m innocently enjoying my healthy and happy 60-year old life, and the next, I’m buried under Husband’s bleak harbinger. Shortly after his prophetic words, I returned to the present and remembered that I only have today… that, life unfolds one day at a time… that, time is of the essence… etc.
Two years after Husband’s epiphany, the Corona Virus came crashing onto the scene. At the outset, laypeople like myself thought this casual nuisance could, and would be readily contained and that my 18 remaining summers would be left intact. But now, nine months into Covid, and I am the one counting those ‘anythings’, completely conscious of happenings that didn’t actually happen in 2020.
A serial non-planner, I usually bristle when Husband starts counting the days until Christmas, in October. I implore him to hold off on all things Yule, until at least Dec. 1st, after which time he is free to bedeck and bedazzle to his heart’s content. My tendency to squash his anticipatory glee is an attempt to short circuit any disappointment that might result from a less-than-perfect holiday. Personally, I believe that if I expect the worst, then anything better is a bonus. Quite conversely, Husband feels that the more (of anything festive), the merrier. Whereas I ask myself, With Covid’s ongoing curse, why decorate or adorn when no one will be here to behold?, Husband asks himself (with a much more positive attitude), Why not light it up for ourselves!?
One positive side effect of Covid’s chaos is that I now see clearly, it’s memories that make time matter, and holidays and traditions are the anchors of those memories; “Remember the Easter when Aunt Flo dropped the ham on the floor?”… or, “How about cousin Jane with all those Christmas lights wrapped around her?!”... or, “The house we rented on the Cape this year was amazing.” Without these moments, there are no memories, and time is just, well, time. Like a tree falling in the woods, if you don’t hear about it, did it really happen?
Although mass acceptance of the vaccine remains variable, and there are details still to be determined, I have the somewhat educated sense that by March 2021, the progression of the pandemic will, at minimum, be paused with a plentiful portion of the population then being protected and/or hopefully, immune. Despite this excellent news, it also means that exactly one year of yucks and yarns will have evaporated into the memory-free zone of nothingness… that the only reference we will have to 2020 are those practical events that took place in The Year That Wasn’t.
In the big picture, I know I’m one of the lucky ones; I have my health… my kids are all out of school… I have no childcare issues… no elderly parents to worry about… and I have a job (God willing, the real estate market stays strong). That’s surely a lot to be grateful for. But I still feel a certain melancholy over the loss of making memories. Equally important, it means the number of summers now remaining in my life are down to 17. And unfortunately, time flies, even when you’re not having fun.