Yesterday was a day like most of my days. I finished editing one chapter and started editing another. I baked bread and caught up on laundry and did some garden cleanup. I revised one of the poems I wrote over the weekend. I chit-chatted with Paul, and talked to my parents on the phone, and fried up a batch of salmon-and-potato cakes for dinner, and lost a cribbage game to Tom.

Given the insanity in the White House, dull daily life here at the Alcott House feels ever more precious. Trump's selfishness and indifference are on naked display: he is willing to kill everyone, even his family, even the entire government, just to keep that TV camera pointing at him. What does he care about the rest of us--the ants at his feet? The answer is: nothing. So are we supposed to feel sorry for him because he got sick? He did everything wrong: he got sick because he took no precautions, and he infected many, many people around him. He still doesn't care. How can anyone be so low?

Tom and I haven't laid eyes on our parents, sisters, or nephews since last winter. My friend Betsy's husband died of Covid in a nursing home. You have your own stories of loss and isolation and distance. It's his fault. It's all his fault.

I don't know why I'm wasting space telling you this: You already know; I'm not tearing the blinders from anyone's eyes. Maybe, though, it's important to remind ourselves that our small civilized spaces really are a barricade against the venal, the traitorous, the corrupt, the cruel. Melania doesn't care about those "fucking Christmas decorations" at the White House. Fine. Why should she? The White House is a hellhole. But Paul and I have already decided where we're putting our tree this year: in the dining-room window, where it can greet him as he walks up the dark and snowy streets after a long shift at the pizza joint.

Hearth and lamplight. A smile of welcome. O save us, love.