Chronicles of the Virus Day 37. My letter to the World.

My Dearest World, 

I hope the receipt of this letter finds you in good health and fine spirits. We are well, and most importantly, in good health.

I have recently read a report of an old-fashioned letter a mother has sent her dear daughter, along with ten masks she herself sewed with all her mother's love. I have decided to send you, dear World, a letter in the same style, though without the masks, as the motor on my sewing machine has long given up the ghost through my inattention and lack of love for it. Nor would I have had the opportunity to buy the prodigious amount of cloth necessary, much less the elastic.

The mother mentions in her letter that she is wondering when the day of freedom will come to be able to celebrate Baccus. In my humble opinion, many people have already commenced such celebrations, as the stock of wines and harsher spirits in supermarkets have emptied out. To give credit, however, flour has also disappeared from circulation, so I must assume that the wine is washing down a fair number of cakes and breads. 

Here, at our humble home, things are much the same. The potato crop is coming along nicely, and will soon need hoeing. Onions are being put in, as are peppers; should they be delivered, as we are not allowed to venture far enough to visit our preferred gardening centers of other years. My esteemed mother-in-law has also received a batch of chicks to raise, and I am not entirely certain, but I believe a neighbor has also received delivery of a young pig. The old ways are returning, if they have ever left this hamlet. 

News has come to me of an accomplished group of three officers of the law, in the American state of Connecticut, who were tasked with trapping a runaway pig. After much hullabaloo and almost an hour, they were finally able to detain its flight with a garbage can. One is reminded of contests of country fairs of yore, where the objective was to catch a greased pig. 

My dearest husband has also begun a crop of garlic. He has had limited success with this root, yet this year he has watched detailed instructions on how to begin the crop before putting it in the ground. I trust the crop grows well and strong, and that we enjoy home-grown garlic this summer in our dishes.

He has also begun a crop of lemon trees from seeds. They are now sprouting and ready to be planted in pots. From there, they should flourish and be ready to be transferred to the garden by next year. However, I hopefully doubt we shall enjoy their fruit before this quarantine is lifted, Deo volens.

I must tell you, we have been told to remain at home until the 9th of May. The days grow longer, and the hearts grow wearier with the toll. I, too, long, as the mother of the letter, to run free with the wind in my hair. However, my celebration of Baccus is immediate and remains quite moderate. My preference upon release is to drive to the open sea shore and feel the sea wind in my face. It is much to be preferred as a benefit to my health.  

The news from the hospital frontlines is much improved, though still heartrendingly tragic. The number of casualties has declined, though they are still tremendously high. One can only obey the strictures to stay home and away from others, and hope that one day, this will pass, and the virus shall be defeated. This is our duty, and we must fulfill it in this war of attrition. We are the soldiers behind the frontlines.

With these last words, I send you my love, and wishes for good health in the coming weeks. I await your reply, as your humble servant, Maria.

Life continues.