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 Ten

I awaken to snow and cold. The sky is grey, hunched over the city, pressing down. Snowflakes drift down, damp and cold. The roads and sidewalks are wet, the grass covered in a thin layer of snow. The bare trees have a lines of white running along their branches like veins made visible by an isotope.

There are few people out walking today, the weather chasing them to their cars. Everyone I pass by walks with a hunch to their shoulders, as though bracing themselves against an expected blow. The sidewalks are slippery in a few spots where the snow has managed to collect creating a layer of slush. The few trees with green leaves remaining seem to have turned yellow overnight.

Last night I had a cup of hot chocolate. It is now the season for hot chocolate, scotch and dark beer. Today I will make soup or stew, something that once it is in your stomach radiates heat, warming the whole body as it nourishes.

We will have to seek out the comforts of home in the coming months, to fortify ourselves to brave the cold, as we struggle through the winter to keep the dread lord from our doors.

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