Reflections on Grieving 2020

I won’t be going to any Christmas parties this year.

It hit me while boxing up my crop tops and hauling out my sweaters for winter. I hung cozy knits and long sleeves on the same rod as the fancy blazers I haven’t worn since March when I came across my tacky Christmas sweater.

It is truly ugly — embossed with a giant fuzzy Santa head and a few other 3D features, and made out of some polyester blend that always overheats my typically frozen body. I’m pretty sure it’s flammable.

I have managed to don my gay apparel for every one of the six years I’ve owned the terrible thing — even in balmy Florida winters. But this year will be different. Sure, I might wear it to a holiday zoom call but it won’t be another star in a constellation of absurdity on a raucous Saturday night.

No ugly sweater parties. No classy soirées with mulled wine and an excuse to wear a cocktail dress. No silly wondering if there might be mistletoe and what could happen beneath it.

And to be honest, I’m quite sad about it.

I want to tell myself this is silly, but every hope is a worthy hope to the heart that’s built it, and no attempt to shrink our losses will make them any smaller.

It is hard to talk about the little paper cuts of grief. When half the world is on fire, the…