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 Ninety Four

The sun shining through the clouds following an afternoon thunder shower. It never seems so bright as it does at this very moment, the earth still damp though quickly drying, the pools of water vanishing. Soon all signs of the storm will have vanished, the clouds drifting elsewhere.

The first flash of lightning was so bright it startled me and I wondered if an explosion had taken place. The rumble of thunder came much later, almost an afterthought.

Nothing smells as sweet as grass and leaves after a shower. It smells of life, the promise of it, and brings me memories of wandering through fields in my youth. How I would watch the storm clouds coming along the horizon and hurry for cover when the first drops struck. After I would walk through the pastures, the damp grass soaking my shoes, their long strands still heavy with drops seeking the ground.

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