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 Seventy One

Another day away from my correspondences. I transplanted some tomatoes and kale, preparing them for their eventual move outdoors. The weather hasn’t truly gotten warm yet – the days are often delightful, but the evenings still have a chill – so it will be a week or two before I am able to move them outdoors. This year in particular has been miserly for warmth; last year I would have transplanted weeks ago.

After, my love and I wandered down to the island on the northern river – we are between two rivers that join to the east, not far from that island – and had a brief picnic beneath some trees. It was brief because as we sat enjoying the peace of the day, the wind picked up and the sky darkened with clouds. Frantically we packed up our things before the rain came and sprinted for cover.

We stayed for a time in the shelter of a building, as I confidently expressed that the storm would shortly pass, while my love reminded me that I had earlier dismissed her concerns about it raining. After waiting some time, with the rain refusing to let up, we left and had a miserable walk to a bus shelter, where we watched the rain fall and the wind bend the trees and upend umbrellas of passersby.

It was still raining some thirty minutes later when the bus arrived. This was the first bus I have been on since the invoking of the quarantine laws and it was strange to enter it. The driver was sealed off behind glass and the seats marked where riders were supposed to sit to maintain our distance. There was no one aboard but us and no one else came on as we trundled along the streets. We disembarked at our stop and hurried home through the rain, which still fell heavily. Only once we were inside and had slipped out of our wet clothes and shoes, did it cease and the sun emerge bright and glorious to mock us.