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 Seventy One

A winter cold has at last arrived in the Lost Quarter. The air is different, thin and seeking, finding its way into your softest parts. The exhaust from every building is visible now, clouds drifting up slowly in the air, seeming to hang there before dissipating. I watch it float along and think of all that is not visible in our world unless circumstances provide us with the perspective to see it.

My love spends her day baking, while I relax. She makes pans of cinnamon buns, chocolate bombs and rum balls. When she is done we gather up the fruits of her labour and head out into the cold to deliver them to her friends. A warm Christmas gift on a chilly day. She will not let the dread lord deny her the joy of giving to those she cares about.

It is the last day before the latest quarantine restrictions go into effect and everywhere we see people out, getting their nails and hair done, eating in a restaurant for what will be the last time for a month at least. For the most part it is quiet and subdued, the streets empty of walkers given the cold and even the roads uncluttered of vehicles. Everyone is settling in for the winter, not a winter anyone wanted, but the winter we will have.

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