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 Three Hundred Forty Nine

We have returned to the beginning again, the end nowhere in sight. How many times must we come to this place before we can find our way? Somewhere in the back of our minds lurks the dread that, despite all we profess, all our optimism and all our great deeds, we shall be back here forever.

The geese are returning, as they do each year, flocking to the shores of the rivers. It seems earlier this year than most. The weather is warm and it is enough to allow oneself to believe that spring is here. The piles of snow will melt away and leaves will start to bud. This may be a false spring, there may be more snow and cold to come, as much as we all hope not. Winter may come again.

There are lights in the distance, now bright and now dim in the darkness of the night. They are there in the periphery of our vision, vanishing when we turn to look at them straight on. The nearer they seem the more they fade into the darkness, as though someone is covering a lamp to hide their presence. The lights beckon us onward, promising warmth and companionship, a taste of a better life. But we know not to go. After this past year we know yet again.

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