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
anti-climactic.
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.