Semi-intelligent emergency physician Fredericka Johnsdotter spent a sunny Sunday with her beloved daughter, after sleeping in, enjoying a Bailey's coffee while her daughter ate Nutella crepes, sorting laundry, and finishing a book. She enjoyed leftovers for lunch, let her Calico cat out on the back deck one last time as the snow has nearly melted in the supra-freezing temperatures of this fine fall day, went for a long walk through the nearby woods and along the river's shore, walking the path misnamed Lakeshore.
When dusk settled, she videochatted with her dearest friend, who she had not seen this year in accordance to their level of comfort with visitors outside of her bubble, and as Freddie lived in the red zone.
It was a good day in the time of Covid, filled with her daughter's singing from the basement that she had taken over as a teenager of the age 14. There was enough time together, and apart. There were happy memories and dreams of the future. There were Christmas stories and parody songs. There was no war. There was no disease. There was heat and electricity and food and water and peace and love. They were healthy, sheltered, and warm.
Sunday, November 29th was a good day to be alive.
