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Illustration by Wenting Li

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Under a blazing blue sky, a skiff of clouds coating the azure in a whipped cream ripple, along the tree-lined road dissecting the golf course and the tennis club, between the riffs of snow, on pathways and trails, we trudge. COVID warriors.

Some glide, sleek, slim shadows on the groomed trails. Others, more bundled; less sleek, walk. A runner, seriously outfitted, races by. There are dogs and kids and toboggans, too. With walking sticks and leashes, a cup of coffee in a mitten, mukluks, snowshoes, sunglasses, goggles, facemasks and tuques, our armour, we press on.

We pass, two metres of air between us, lift a hand or slide a palm sideways, in silent salute. Sometimes we say, “Good morning!” in a sharply optimistic voice; sometimes we simply nod.

This year, I need good cheer: my holiday snowman stayed up longer than it should

We walk.

Walk off virtual get-together fatigue. Walk off Zoom tech glitches. Who cares about security and privacy! Walk away from Microsoft Teams where you can chat with up to 250 people. Sure, Microsoft. You try it! Walk off Cisco’s Webex: “conferencing that just works” until it doesn’t. “Seems we’ve lost our connection.”

Walk on.

Pass the spirit-lifting homemade public art hanging on trees and the child’s Crayola messages in the windows.

Stay safe!

You can do it!

Thank you, frontline workers.

Physically distant; hearts connected; we walk.

“State of Emergency update: Manitobans should only leave their homes for essential purposes.”

During our code-red lockdown, Winnipeg has the highest per capita rate of COVID-19 in the country: 15 per cent. For 72 days, we hunker down. Do your part: social hibernation, human isolation. The world shrinks. Each day, another stroke on your cell wall.

A world of “No.” A world of “Only.”

No one from outside your household allowed in your household.

No more than five people together (two metres apart) in public outdoor spaces.

No gatherings – of any size – in your own outdoor spaces, porches or backyards.

No one inside libraries, gyms, salons, restaurants.

Only items deemed “essential” can be purchased in-store. The list is arbitrary and startling: Books are not essential. Chocolate bars are.

One-person households are allowed only one visitor who is also in a solo household.

We press on.

We eschew Zoom and Skype, my one-person pod and I, and choose FaceTime to catch up with two of his closest friends, my “adopted daughters” one now living in Vancouver, the other, San Diego. What have they been up to?

They’ve gone to restaurants! Gyms! Hair appointments!

Oh, my God! Tell us about restaurants! Tell us about haircuts. Tell us. Tell us. Tell us. Please!

One has had COVID. I didn’t have a cough, she tells us, but I was really tired. The lack of taste and smell came later. She’s an athletic thirtysomething – and a brown belt jiu jitsu world champion – she’s healthy, her symptoms, mild, no big deal, she says. The really big deal? Not being able to come home to visit her parents in Winnipeg. I just want to be a daughter, she wails. In Vancouver, the other leaves our call to pick up her new best friend and roommate: the tiny, grey kitten she’s just adopted. Adorable, and harder to come by these days. Pets: a COVID-induced essential.

We press on.

“Another State of Emergency daily update: When leaving the house to obtain essentials, be sure to physically distance.”

Today’s big event is my weekly COVID grocery shop. List. Wallet. Keys. Reusable shopping bag. Check. Check. Check. Oops, where’s my mask? Got it! Now, what did I do with my keys?

A lineup circles Costco, so I drive away – again. In the past year, I’ve been inside the store twice. So much for the benefits of membership. Perhaps I could get a refund – such as the $78 Manitoba insurance refund I just received owing to the decrease in claims caused by a decrease in driving caused by COVID lockdown. I drive to Sobey’s, lineups there, too. Superstore, ditto. Defeated, I head home, stopping at a local park for another heart-soothing walk along the river. I head past the Starbucks with its drive-through lineup and make my way to a local coffee shop. With only two physically-distant customers waiting for takeout inside, I can go in straight away. Success! Walking out, I rip off my mask, sip from the barista’s artfully made latté, inhale the crisp, winter air. I sip until the tulip design is sucked away, and stop at another park for a stroll.

“State of Emergency. Daily update: Manitobans should wear a mask in indoor public places and avoid crowded spaces.”

In January, the ducks on the duck pond have been replaced by skaters. The skating shacks are closed; people sit on the bank or a nearby bench to lace up. The heated indoor washrooms are closed, too; replaced by port-a-potties, “Igottago” painted on the side.

On my walk I note the Scottie dogs – one black; one white – are out today, along with a pair of whippets in tartan coats. I see the white Siberian husky, the five mixed-breed elderly charges tethered to their dog walker. A trotting greyhound leads the couple in front of me on the snow-packed riverside path.

Neighbours and community volunteers have claimed our public spaces: bird feeders and purple ribbons are strewn on branches; photos of lost loved ones are taped to signposts; a drawing of a snowy owl, another of earmuffs – part of a secret scavenger hunt, no doubt – are affixed to tree trunks; a lost mitten is hoisted onto a fence picket. And there it is again; I see it everywhere I go: a soaring bird painted on a small wooden plaque.

Press on, it coos, press on.

L. Nadine De Lisle lives in Winnipeg.

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