It’s December of 2020. With sappiness and gloom, we review our Spotify yearly autopsies from the floors of our old bedrooms; ones that seem to be trapped in the resin of 2016. Every December is this way to an extent. But 2020, with its bleakness, its strangeness, its what-the-hell-is-normality-ness, seems especially this way. There’s a substantial amount of what in fresh hell just happened to us?! In the air that mingles with the peppermint mocha and cinnamon pinecone as we drag ourselves from Obieland—physically, socially, or otherwise. These days, the holidays are familiar but coated in this strange 2020 gloom. I never believed even in astrology but 11:11 hits and I’ve been known, this year only, to kiss my phone screen where the time glows.
So, anyway, sitting in my claustrophobic childhood home, laughing and weeping at the absurdity of Our Present Moment, I knew any typical article would unfurl preachy and saccharine. And this is a liberal arts college publication. We just couldn’t have that! So, I did what any sentimental, Arts and Culture-prone Oberlin Second-Year would do and drew something saccharine and preachy about it. I got out my Ben Franklin colored pencils and drew about it. “It” being: the beginning of another strange Oberlin intermission, a holly jolly COVID holiday, and, oh, this little orange cat that arrived, unannounced and very much not Doordash-ed, on my parents’ doorstep the day after Awful-Colonial-Cooked-Bird-Holiday (Turkey day). His name is Solomon.