One hundred thousand Americans dead in less than four months.
It’s as if every person in Edison, N.J., or Kenosha, Wis., died. It’s half the population of Salt Lake City or Grand Rapids, Mich. It’s about 20 times the number of people killed in homicides in that length of time, about twice the number who die of strokes.
The death toll from the coronavirus passed that hard-to-fathom marker on Wednesday, which slipped by like so many other days in this dark spring, one more spin of the Earth, one more headline in a numbing cascade of grim news.
Nearly three months into the brunt of the epidemic, 14 percent of Americans say they know someone who has succumbed to the virus.
These 100,000 are not nameless numbers, nor are they mostly famous people. They are, overwhelmingly, elderly — in some states, nearly two-thirds of the dead were 80 or older. They are disproportionately poor and black and Latino. Among the younger victims, many did work that allowed others to stay at home, out of the virus’s reach.
For the most part, they have died alone, leaving parents and siblings and lovers and friends with final memories not of hugs and whispered devotion, but of miniature images on a computer screen, tinny voices on the phone, hands pressed against a window.
The dead are not equally dispersed across the land. They perish mostly in pockets — in huge, frightening outbreaks such as the one in New York City, and in smaller ones, flares of disaster around meatpacking plants, in immigrant neighborhoods and at facilities for the elderly.
