I drove some of our deserted city streets. On a corner, a line of people stand outside a shelter, spaced the magic 6’, and leaning against a brick wall under a church’s stained glass of Mother Mary in her mercy. Near the line’s end is a little family. The mother is playing guitar and singing with a voice sweet as a lonesome songbird. They’re in line but her guitar case is open for coins of appreciation. Her husband, he’s on disability, watches their three-year old playing with a teddy bear. The singer had a regular gig at the Stoplight club, Friday and Saturday’s until the club closed. Then the weddings, anniversaries, and wineries closed down. I asked her what they’re going to do, she says, “This is just the way it is, but it’ll get better. I just saw that fiver you dropped in my case. I know love’s doors are still open.”
Hello March. The very word says forward—and despite political claims otherwise you don’t March backwards.