We all thought 2020 was going to be the worse of it, didn’t we? How wrong we were. Since February 2020, we’ve had a long list of events that belong in a dystopian thriller loudly hammering home an anti-fascist sermon to young adult readers. I’m still numb about all of it.

We have too many Americans who never learned how to function in part of a community or a society. A self-centered cancerous mass of outright villainy and narcissistic exceptionalism. I am tired. I’m sure you are too. I had to drop, at least temporarily, some of my recent writing projects due to a distaste at addressing certain topics that, after the past year and a half, cease to bring me joy.

I’ve lost a parent. I’ve gained a great-nephew. There are more promises of life on the way, and the family grows while it wanes. There’s hope and trauma and confusion all bundled up in a tapestry of exhaustion. Somehow, we’re reaching out hands to each other and rebuilding bridges.

Smoke season is insidious and deceptive this year, in more ways than one. Be careful out there.