One morning in the first week of November, confined at home, feeling almost depressed, I asked my wife if we could go out for a ride. We ended up in Marsaxlokk, the charming fishing village on Malta’s southeast coast.

Irma parked the car along the bay’s main road and we started to stroll, mask over our mouth and nose, on the recently-built promenade, intent on following the health authorities’ advice to keep the now proverbial ‘social distance’. In fact, we did not need to worry; the stretch of pavement which normally is full of people and children – enjoying fresh seawater-smelling air and the beauty of the conglomeration of small and large colourful boats and luzzi in the bay – was nearly empty.

It was a fine day with a northerly wind and a beautiful bright blue sky was peppered with soft clouds.

A few diners occupied a few of the hundreds of seats of the ‘open’ restaurants, and were cherishing tasty food, wine and beer, under large umbrellas sheltering them from the scorching sun… in November.

Local fishermen, masks covering their mouth and nose, were calmly busy, either washing their boats on land from unwanted material that had stuck to the bottom of their craft when they were at sea, or repainting with bright paints the parts where the colour had faded. Others were scrubbing their nets from sea-bottom debris and coiling them in bundles to use in future fishing trips.

But life for the village’s fishermen too is far from normal. We were told that the lampuki season for the Xlukkajri fishermen was being closed; their last catch was poor – a sign that the migration of fish in the area they were allotted had moved further west; this is something the Eldorado fish do. So Gozitan fishermen may still catch the delicious fish through December; their lampuki fishing areas lie on the far west and northwest of the Maltese islands.

The anchorage bay in the southeast – that is what ‘Marsa’ and ‘xlokk’ stand for – usually mesmerises me. But not this time.

I am missing seeing my children and grandchildren at home for our fortnightly Sunday lunch. Notwithstanding the desire to forget and the resolve to enjoy myself breathing fresh air by the seaside, my mind kept thinking about the critical situation caused by this cursed COVID virus; about my family whom I yearn to meet; about the lack of tourists who look forward to visit our beautiful islands and places like this fishing village; about the unhealthy state of my country; and above all, about my frail health.

The bay was full of colourful boats and a beautiful bright blue sky was peppered with soft clouds.

Too many people are falling victim to the epidemic both in Malta and all over the world; too many old and not-so-old victims – including friendly, dedicated, saintly priests – are falling like cards, away from their dear ones, alone, and… buried, sealed in white plastic bags… what inhumanity!

Though some flights still come and go from our country, most of the airlines’ sanitised seats are empty, most hotel rooms are empty, restaurants and bars …and our beautiful shores and bays with the crystal clear Mediterranean Sea… are empty!

I turned to prayer. I prayed that this Christmas makes us feel better… and perhaps heal, and help me and everyone forget that this year – 2020 – has been a very bad one economically but, above all, for the health of the whole world, for Malta and the Maltese, for friends and relatives of mine, for my family, and… for me.

I prayed that Baby Jesus is healthy when he comes, wearing no mask; and very close to us, with no social distance in between. I prayed that he heals us and brings the much-desired happiness of His Christmas. I prayed that the coming New Year, 2021, is a better – not necessarily a prosperous one – but definitely a better one for the whole of humanity.

Soon it was noon.

Irma and I walked back to the car and drove home, where – because we are among the most vulnerable – we are advised to stay to keep safe. And I wondered when my depressed mood would finally go away.