Remembering 2020: a son-of-obituary

Remembering 2020: a son-of-obituary

________

January:

It seems almost a lifetime ago that Scott Morrison fled to Hawaii as climate change incinerated his country. Let's spare a thought for him. With border restrictions, useless dicks are now having to evade moral responsibility in local holiday areas.

February:

Trump was meant to be impeached, and for a moment we got our hopes up. We thought the end was near. It was actually 'nigh'. Crap.

March:

Aotearoa goes into lockdown. Other people make sourdough: I become sour and doughy. Conspiracy theorists claim COVID is a hoax created by government brainwashing - little knowing that if brains are the target, they've never been safer.

April:

I'm not sure what's happening internationally. I just remember trying to reassure myself that it's not possible to outgrow trackpants. That's not how trackpants work.

As a nation, we celebrate the self-sacrifice and fortitude of Easter and ANZAC Day while elbowing our neighbours out of the aisles where they put the pasta and toilet paper.

May:

I've lost my sense of time. All I know is that with lockdown over, we're all free to head to the Warehouse and buy more spacious trackpants.

Over the sea, a man is summarily executed on a Minneapolis street, his neck compressed for nine minutes. His last words are, 'I can't breathe'. His executioner does not remove his knee, even though the man has been motionless for two minutes, until a paramedic pleads.

June:

People march, rage and weep, in the rawness of their pain; or simply watch TV while other cities burn.

White supremacy continues to be expounded by the least supreme whites. The orange one proves the least supreme of all.

July:

The Olympics were scheduled to begin, but they've been postponed. All my training is FOR NOTHING. I look soberly at the silver fern on my new trackpants, wonder if the Warehouse will accept an exchange.

August:

Kanye runs. Suddenly, I too have the runs. I didn't come out of lockdown for this.

September:

RBG passes, and while she was imperfect, she gave a damn. Plenty of us feel she had no right to go, not now, taking the damns she gave with her, when they were never needed more.

October:

Our cannabis referendum fails. Those wanting to blaze one down realise they'll have to settle for catastrophic climate change and Scott Morrison.

November:

Can't really think of anything for November.

December:

I'm celebrating Wellington summer by eating soup under the heat pump.

And I'm trying to do what I always do when I'm despondent. Tell myself, 'This too shall pass'. Remind myself of my values - because they're pretty half-arsed values if a discouraging year can knock them out of you.

And I remind myself that people are by and large pretty good: not some of ones I've written about just now, but definitely the ones who will read it. And despite myself, I feel a sneaky feeling of gratitude, the hint of a smile.

Truly, the only way is up. We will take the good things of this year - the resilience, the solidarity, the twisted humour - and we will take on the next.

E hoa mā, let's face down 2021 together.