Christmas lights twinkle along sidewalks and glitter in store windows. “Jingle Bells,” “White Christmas” and “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” jingle and jangle amid the din of shoppers darting from display to display searching for the perfect gift before they rush home with their treasures.

Years ago, a painting of a pirate ship hung in my daughter’s bedroom. The ship sat on the waters of a ruffled sea. The black spindly masts made stark shadows against the florescent lime-green and yellow moonlight shining on the dark green and indigo water.

Even today, I cannot say I like President Trump’s personal style. I am bothered by his name-calling and the harsh rhetoric of his tweets, but I have concluded I would rather have someone say what he means in a barbaric way than someone who speaks honey-dripping promises, then twists the knife.

I cannot help but wonder as I watch the news and listen to modern soothsayers make predictions concerning the future of this pandemic. “It is only going to get worse,” they say. “We must brace ourselves for the second wave,” they say.