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 Fifty
A clipper storm blew in last night dropping temperature precipitously and bringing snow with it. After a week of mild weather the abrupt change was something of a shock, although we had warnings of it as the temperature began to drop yesterday afternoon.
The appearance of winter can hardly be a shock as we move into late November, though one always hopes for another day or week that it can be held at bay. We may get it as well, for clipper storms, as the name implies, move fast across the prairies, often visiting the worst of the cold and snow upon the eastern dominions.
This morning as I walked through the darkness on snow covered sidewalks it felt like the depths of winter. The cold was deeper than it has been and with the darkness, I had the sense of season settling in to stay. I was bundled against the elements: toques and gloves and a heavy jacket. My warm breath clouded the air in front of me.
Slowly but surely as I walked on the cold found its way in. I felt it on my cheeks first, that familiar sting that is easily ignored. Then it worked its way through my gloves so that tips of my fingers ached from it. I had to flex and clench them to work the blood through them. My legs were next for I only wore pants, not realizing how cold it actually was. It took some time though, for their constant effort of propelling me forward kept them warm.
By then I was home and the cold did not go any deeper into me. It lingered for a time in my fingers and on my cheeks even after I had undressed. Only after I was sipping on a warm cup of coffee did it absent itself entirely.