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 Forty Three

Snow fell overnight, blanketing the city, and it falls still as my love and I walk to her work. The city is quiet this dark morning; even the crows are timid in their jawing, as though they don’t want to disturb the stillness the snow has brought. The cars on the road and the people walking move slowly, tentatively, unsure what lies beneath the snow.

Back inside where it is warm I sit and watch the light slowly come into the world. The sky is grey – a blanket above and a blanket below, with the snow flakes moving between them. The sounds of the city, of our home, seem more muted today. I barely hear any traffic, only the heat turning on and off. There is a deep sense of solitude, that if I closed my eyes the world would vanish beneath the snow.

Perhaps it will by day’s end. The snow continues, steady and undiminished. Tiny flakes that settle one upon the other building some vast architecture.

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