It’s yet another gloomy morning. I’ve had a hearty breakfast. I’m now listening to The Current on CBC Radio, sipping on the remaining coffee.
Another day, another COVID story. I look out the window; the mist is blurring out the trees in Queens Park. An older man narrates his battle with COVID. He’s South Asian. He was gone, he says, by the time the ambulance arrived.
My heart sinks with every sentence. When he says he was gone, I break down. I’m not crying for him; like the earth, crying a slow drizzle, I’m crying because I don’t know what else to do.
Somehow, miraculously, they’re able to revive him. It could take five months, doctors say, for him to recover.
It’s stopped raining. Time to go out for a walk, before it starts again.