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 Twenty One

After what felt like weeks of snow, the clouds have finally cleared and sun is bright in the sky again. It shines upon a changed, wintry world. The chill of the weekend felt like mid-winter not October and the snow is heavy on the ground. There is warmth in the sun though, already water is dripping from tree branches and buildings, so there is some hope that we shall not be facing snow covered world until March. These are the hopes to cling in these trying days.

With the cold and snow my love and I mostly spent our weekend as hermits in our home. I made bagels and pretzels, while she made brownies, all food to bring comfort on a cold day. We watched a movie about a wizard who lost his heart and the woman who restored it. Tale as old as time.

I also followed my annual autumn ritual of suffering through the misery of a losing baseball team. It is the surest sign in my mind that winter has arrived, and a relief in a way. If my team isn’t playing they can no longer break my heart, as they inevitably do. Despite that, every year I find my way back to hope again, only for it to be cruelly dashed. In this year of the grippe reborn hope is under ration and loss of it hits harder than it has other years.

It is only too easy to wallow in self-pity, and this year we do not have the luxury of allowing ourselves that. The dread lord stalks the land, growing in power every day in these parts, as he does in so many places. The outcome of baseball games is of small consequence compared to that, yet I cannot stop my thoughts from returning to that sorrow. It is easier to bear in its way, because there always remains that kernel of deluded hope that next year will somehow be different, while the dread lord is merciless.

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