Candles have been lit. Teh Facebooks updated. Postcards mailed. Pictures posted, shared. Public prayers said. Songs sung. Hands held. Signs held. Calls made.
It snowed and rained in Boston last night.
It’s been nearly sixty days since the ill-planned evacuation of Long Island. Mayor Walsh is only now beginning to provide a mechanism for folks to get their belongings off the island.
Take a moment and think about that.
You’re homeless. All you have in the world fits inside a duffel bag or wheeled suitcase which you lug around with you most everywhere you go. Then - one day - you are forced to leave behind everything you own - clothes - toiletries - meds etc. Now you truly have nothing.
Imagine what that would be like.
Imagine what sleeping in the woods is like for the evacuated women.
Imagine what being warehoused in a gymnasium is like for the evacuated men.
Imagine a precarious life made all the more so - and in a Boston winter.
Beyond the telephone number provided by the Mayor that people can (finally) call to get their belongings back, according to a very Mayor-friendly piece in the Boston Globe, there are only squishy terms like “hopes”, “expectations” and “likely options.”
Hopes, expectations, and likely options won’t keep people alive.
So - like - now what?
The gas pedal needs to be kept nailed to the floor. Unrelenting and very public pressure needs to continue to be directed at City Hall - anything less than that will be the road to sadness - and death.