Notes on the Grippe

Being an accounting of the recent and continuing pandemic and its various circumstances, from the perspective of an inhabitant of the regions lately called the Lost Quarter. Dates unknown.

Day Forty Three

I woke up this morning to find my proud seedlings all collapsed, their stems flimsy and weak, after I had neglected to water them yesterday. After several minutes of panic and choice invective, directed at the plants for their failure to cooperate, I spritzed some water upon the soil and waited and hoped.

How miserable I was, my weeks of careful nurturing seemingly all for naught. What would normally have been a minor frustration now seemed a portentous failure. How could I recover from this? For a moment it seemed impossible. I swore a lot, which helped a little.

Yet within an hour the seedlings had returned to their former splendour, stretching up toward the sun, showing far more resilience than I had managed. There is a lesson there, I suppose, though I would have to be willing to learn it. Cursing, however, is more fun.

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