On 2020 and sacred objects

Nearly four years ago I wrote a letter to my boys. It was the night before Trump’s inauguration and I needed to frame what was about to happen; to wring and wrench some meaning from something that seemed meaningless.

I told them to think of the inauguration as Book 4 in the Harry Potter series. Book 4 is when Cedric Diggory dies. It’s when Voldemort returns and the dark side wins. But the series doesn’t end with Book 4. The fight continues through three more books.

For some reason I remembered that letter last night when I heard about Ruth Bader Ginsberg dying. I saw the headline and slumped over in my seat. I was supposed to be starting dinner but I just sat for a long while with my head in my hands, taking shallow breaths.

I honestly could’t tell you any more about RBG than wikipedia but I can tell you this: her death — and Chadwick Boseman’s before her — feels a little like Book 6. Book 6 is when Dumbledore dies. I’m not saying that Ginsberg was some grand, wizened and wise old wizard. Or maybe I am. What I’m really saying is that I feel the same despair. I feel the same despondency settling over me like a weighted blanket. We are losing our leaders, our luminaries; the ones we expected to fight for us, to show us the way, to tell us what to do.