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March 9
Winter has begun to fade. It’s the time of year I take the long way home, opting to walk instead of wait 20 minutes for a bus. Kanata’s not particularly exciting during any season of the year, but spring can bring charm to the most mundane of things.
As we watch COVID-19 cases pop up across Toronto, Montreal, and Vancouver, an uncertain sense of immunity takes over Ottawa. Yet to have our first case, we wait anxiously for that alert—though unease is now a standard.
March 10
I went to a coffee shop on Bronson with my friends. We ordered lattes with glass cups. We sat in a crowded room, huddled around a small table, elbows touching, heads on shoulders.
Everything was ordinary.
March 11
I never thought an empty bus would make me long for the crowds of people who would swarm together like sardines.
But, as I sat on my empty rush-hour bus to Eagleson on the day of Ottawa’s first case, I missed it.
March 12
I spend my morning at Minto, a building I’ve rarely been to, listening to someone aggressively play piano as I finish my French homework.
Outside, the campus turns gray and is cloud covered. Throughout the day, I watch worst-case scenario plans solidify as unbelievers begin to come to terms with COVID-19.
March 13
I get the email that classes are being moved online as I’m trying to study for the law class I’m skipping. I still haven’t emptied my locker. I never really said goodbye to anyone.
March 15
As I pick up the things in my locker, I pass through an empty University Centre. Even the minimal Sunday stragglers have gone home.
March 16
I used to bus to the gym every day after classes. Over the past year, I’d attended most Monday night Zumba sessions. At 5:30 p.m., I’d dance with the regulars, the disco lights, and the songs I’d nearly memorized.
This Monday, I scroll through Youtube’s selection of overly cheerful Zumba instructors to find videos I can endure following. As the dancers smile widely through the screen at my jerky dance moves, I can’t help but feel bored.
I don’t think I liked Zumba. I think I liked the feeling that came from the sense of community.
March 19
The walls of my living room have replaced the endless windows of fourth-floor MacOdrum. Instead of trekking through the tunnels to get to class, I walk from the couch to my room.
Every classroom is now a computer, so when this all ends, I’m pretty sure my vision will be a fraction of what it was before. When I can’t concentrate, I’ll step onto the front porch for a bit; at this point, it’s like the quad.
During the day, my mom goes to her makeshift office in the guest room, and my dad takes over the basement. We meet in the kitchen for lunch and go off on our separate ways. It’s just like any ordinary day.
March 22
My new morning routine is lying on the couch and scrolling mindlessly through the countless new deaths that appeared across the world while I was asleep. Exponential chart after chart—I’m now more familiar with the world as a collection of charts.
Not all days are like this; my routine is a sinusoidal graph: up and down, and up and down. Somedays, I crash for hours thinking of a bleak future where everything is online. Will physical closeness ever be a possibility again?
I think of the classes I once loved that I can barely concentrate on their washed-out online format. I miss strolling aimlessly through Walmart at 10 p.m., and crowds of shoppers in overly lit up malls.
Other days, I embrace the freedom COVID-19 gave me. I sleep until 10 a.m. and no longer get headaches. I can paint for three hours. I no longer have to sit on a bus for a quarter of my day. I’ve caught up with people I barely talked to before. I’ve baked cookies and started playing the piano again.
March 24
I’ve been an only child with no other family than my parents near me all my life, so being each other’s company is something we’re used to. We can sense when we’re tired of each other, so we have time for ourselves. My mom cleans, my dad makes salads, and I draw.
One thing we don’t like discussing is COVID-19—we all cope with the virus differently. My mom thinks it’s the end of the world, while my dad fears silently. I once feared every symptom and every possibility of death.
Now, all that anxiety has disappeared into a sense of preparedness. If you’re always afraid of a hypothetical end to your life, this is somehow much better. I think it’s the fact that I’m not alone.
March 26
March 28
I thought staying at home would be different, but in two weeks, I’ve grown tired of food. My one joy from before has become a necessity, a cure to boredom, and a reminder of what I had.
What brings me any excitement is semblances of the past. Video chatting was my least favourite thing in the world, but now I glue myself to my phone at least once a day talking to family, friends, and whoever else can stand my voice.
Though confined to my neighbourhood, I’ve spent hours on my phone cooking with cousins, working out with friends, and catching up with everyone.
March 29
March 30
Among the list of things I’m most thankful for during this quarantine is the treadmill. It’s wearing down after years of use, but I can still connect my phone to it and run aimlessly. For some reason, I’ve only been listening to songs from 2014. Songs from a sticky middle school I usually like forgetting about are the only noises I can stand. I time travel back to green grass covered hills, stuffy classrooms and bus rides home.
March 31
April 1
We try to go for a walk in the neighbourhood, but so does everyone else. Searching for a place with empty sidewalks, we stumble onto the strip mall by my house. We do laps around the deserted parking lot for an hour. 
Through the dark windows of every store, we can see spring displays catch dust—life has put their season on hold.
Every few minutes or so, a flock of geese fly over our heads—a new beginning has arrived for them. I wonder when it’ll arrive for us.
Feature image by Sara Mizannojehdehi.
