Poetry Friday: Do not go gentle into that good night (because Covid is not a good night)

 

The last time I posted here was the day I ordered Covid tests for both of my parents. 

They were both sick; both tested positive. Mom is not over it yet but she's getting a bit stronger every day. Dad is in the hospital. 

This is an insidious, brutal, unpredictable virus. It goes after a body with impunity, wreaking havoc wherever it can, searching for weaknesses and loopholes. 

My dad is 86 years old, but this was not meant to be "his time." I come from a long line of people who live a long, long time. Mom and Dad reside in a retirement community but live independently. Dad drives, writes novel after novel, goes to local writers' meetings and conferences (or at least he did, before this pandemic.)

When the pandemic hit, we all took precautions. We wanted to keep my parents safe as well as protect our immunocompromised daughter. Our visits with Mom and Dad in the last nine months have all been at a distance. We wore masks, my family stayed outside while Mom and Dad stayed in their apartment and we visited through a screen door. For eight months, their retirement community did an admirable job of keeping the virus at bay. Not a single case made it through the front door. But in November, that changed. Mom and Dad continued to be vigilant, going out only for doctors' appointments. Somehow, one of them caught it and then they both got sick. 

And so now Dad is in a hospital bed, surrounded by doctors and nurses who are trying to save his life. So, yes, I will rage against this virus, I will rage against those who cavalierly speak of this virus affecting "only the elderly" and "just the immune-compromised" and those who say, "Only 1% will die, so what?" Every single life is meant to be treasured. Souls are not meant to be turned into statistics to kick around on Facebook. 

I will not go gentle into that good night. Not under these circumstances, not with this virus, not with this pandemic, not with my father's life. 

Do not go gentle into that good night 

by Dylan Thomas 

Do not go gentle into that good night, 

Old age should burn and rave at close of day; 

Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, 

Because their words had forked no lightning they 

Do not go gentle into that good night. 

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright 

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, 

Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

(Read the rest here; the poem's still under copyright.)

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Michelle Kogan has the Poetry Friday roundup today.