Quarantine Diaries — Day 1
Impressions of a mundane neighborhood
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The terrace
of my apartment building
measures 230 steps,
which correspond to
almost 200 meters.
For several days
it has become my cycle path,
my school field.
At the beginning,
I went there
to get some air,
to admire the view:
below, a large park
with an ancient block of buildings,
abandoned archaeological remains
with a pond; around it,
where squawking ducks.
Other verses of birds
have now been added
and are perceptible
but I cannot recognize them.
I feel ignorant in front of
nature mastery.
To the east
the spire of the Cathedral,
from where a ringing
of bells comes in the afternoon;
to the south,
a totally deserted
and silent square;
to the right the station,
now a destination
for very few trains
that do not even
whistle any more,
and still behind
a large view of the marvelous Port;
to the west, the avenue
leading out of town
towards the setting sun,
a spectacle of colors
on the distant horizon.
230 steps…
almost 200 meters.
I do more than
twenty laps in the morning
and as many in the afternoon,
if it doesn’t rain. And never rains.
Almost 5 kilometers,
a little less than when
I went to the school field
or the cycle path,
but it is already a lot;
I’m tired of thinking.
Turning around that perimeter
for almost 50 times a day
even the tops of the buildings
are now familiar to me.
I know how many parables
there are in one and how many
water tanks in the other.
I drink now. Water’s pure.
Antennas, broken everywhere.
Silence is the real novelty
and if I look around
I seem to be inside
a video to which they
have removed the audio.
The houses seem deserted:
shutters all lowered,
yet people should be at home.
Few are those
that can be seen
from the windows
and the nude balconies.
To the east,
only a few times
I saw a girl
with her baby
on the terrace,
but in a fleeting way.
In the south,
a girl on the balcony
occasionally sunbathes
while talking on the phone.
Mundanity made ascetic.
I am convinced that
it must be an out-of-office teacher,
because her apartment
is small and no one
can be now with her.
Further to the left,
a young couple,
every now and then
she sits on the windowsill
with a book in her hand,
while he is sitting on the desk
probably at the PC.
Is this reality?
Is this routine?
To the north,
a lady struggles
to keep her children
on the balcony at bay.
Very, but very particular coincidence:
all these neighbors,
quarantine colleagues,
live on the third floor.
Like me.
Isn’t that a strange case?
Or perhaps,
I should infer
that only those
on the third floor
have a predisposition
to leak.
And I’m here
like I’m not here,
and I see what could
never be seen;
humans,
fragile
things
during
their
fragile
deeds
