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 Sixty Four
The unseasonable weather continues. It is warmer now than it was most of last April when we first entered into the quarantine protocols, when all I wanted was for winter to end so that I could see some green come back into the world to prove that the seasons had not also been suspended by the grippe reborn. I cannot recall the last stretch of weather this warm in December. It is a blessing at a time when so many protocols are being reintroduced and fears mount that we are losing control of our battle with the dread lord.
The last two days I spent a great deal of time outdoors. After a stressful, busy week, where it seemed I hardly strayed from my small office, rarely glancing away from my computer screen, it was such a relief to be able to venture outdoors. I walked down to the river again with my love. It was crowded with people doing the same thing. The next day I biked along the river, weaving my way among the walkers and joggers and families out with their dogs. It was wonderful to see so many smiling faces, to hear laughter and the chatter of voices.
It is an absence one doesn’t notice until one is back out among people, a longing that is there without being recognized. For a time at the beginning of the quarantine regulations there were those who talked about how this would reorder our way of doing things completely. No longer would we be going out to places with anything like the same frequency. We would be more cautious and insular. Some I’m sure will be that way, but now that we have endured nine months and counting of insularity, most of us have had more than enough.
Strangely I do not pine about crowded bars or movie theatres, hearing a hundred other strangers laugh in delight at what they are seeing, though I certainly will see myself to those places as soon as I am able, to luxuriate amidst the rabble. What I miss at this moment is to sit in a café, lingering over a coffee, watching people as they come and go, listening to snatches of their conversations. Letting the sound and colour of it all wash over me. Even these small pleasures have been denied us for the most part and I will not take them for granted for a long while