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March 2020 – March 2021

Author: Skye Wilson

My parents are moving house, and I

with them. I try to infuse my packing

with rhythm, or ephemera; I tell myself

this won’t last long, will be repeated soon,

repeated soon. This year is not the end

of many things. My mum and dad

can squint and see retirement:

they’ve had careers while I almost

get grad jobs. This year is one of searching

through sieved dirt, and every evening

on my dreaded way to work, I gasp, and pass

the blurry ruins of a cathedral as her sky

turns Dom Perignon pink, or black, or blue.

This year, my boyfriend’s niece, aged two,

got her first bruise, couldn’t wait to show it off

on Zoom – where my brothers both announced

their engagements, one fiancée’s ring on hand

on bump, the other glowing with the good news

and a promotion. My boyfriend is becoming

a doctor and I graduated, despite it feeling


I tell myself this year has not been wasted,

staring out my childhood bedroom window.

Soon, we’ll have a baby shower, kiss friends

on maskless cheeks, share canapés and laughter,

let ourselves be startled by champagne corks.