Last Monday was my oldest daughter's birthday. Her boyfriend, who is a supermarket manager and deals with hundreds of people a day, came by to take her out. They usually get some take-out food and sit in the park. But he needed to use the bathroom, so he came in. This is the first 'stranger" in the house in ages, and I couldn't wait for him to be gone. He'd had a cold the week before and was given a covid test, said he was negative. I hope.
My hairdresser who I consider a friend had parents living in an assisted living facility in upstate New York, a very nice place. Her father was early 90s, her mother in her 80s. Both contracted the virus and died one day apart. This is the closest I've heard about so far. I felt like a knew them, she'd tell me about them when I saw her, about her every few month visits back east. It shocked me. "My father is gone," she wrote, and then overnight "My mother has gone to join my father."
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