vaccine acrostic poem
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The quarantine and the closure of borders was giving my father Cold War flashbacks. And while Covid-19 was reducing life and death to statistics, father was using literature to affirm individuality.’If I’d listened to you, we’d be dead by now’ my father told me as the coronovirus carried one peer of his after another to their grave. I had wanted him to stay in London in February, while coronavirus was still being downplayed by English politicians and their ‘special advisors’. Father had just retired from his radio station in Prague, and was visiting London with my mother – wouldn’t they like to spend more time with my wife and the kids? But they’d insisted on going back, saying something about renewing a contract on their apartment. In retrospect, it was a close shave. My wife and I, as well as our kids, succumbed to corona later that month. We must have been walking around with it for weeks before, little infection engines. One misplaced breath could have done for my parents. In Prague they were safer: lockdown had happened much earlier than in ruthless England.