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 Two Hundred and Nine

The weather has changed in the last days after a glorious month of autumn. Yesterday and today were overcast and grim, with a sharp chill to the air. Rain came on and off, mixed in with a few snow flakes, a promise of what awaits us. This morning it was below freezing when we arose and went out, the first time that has been true since spring, which is rare in these parts. The days to come promise more of the same. Cloudy, with only hints of sunshine, and miserable, with rain and snow and cold.

The first few times when the cold returns and you can see your breath before you as you walk in the morning it is invigorating. The chill in the air seems to fortify, filling every corner of your lungs. It is only as the cold marches on, day after interminable day, the darkness growing grimmer and grimmer, that it becomes too much to bear. And, of course, the cold now is nothing like what is to come. It is pleasant enough to walk with just a light jacket. Later there will be parkas, toques and gloves, all the accoutrements of winter to ward off the bitter chill.

There is something about the autumn and the spring that appeals to me. The sudden shifts in weather. Beautiful one hour and fierce the next. You can experience all the seasons in the space of a day or two, or even a few hours, and you never know what will greet you when you wake in the morning. There is no certainty to it, just as there is no certainty to so much of our lives.

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