Crystal Ball

My tiny crystal ball nestles with others in the leaves of an unidentified foliage stem from my Mother’s Day bouquet. It reflects light, its neighbouring roses, the garden outside. But it doesn’t reflect the past - and of course, it can’t predict the future. 

Right now we’re all desperate to know just what our futures hold - how soon those longed-for hugs will come, together with  meals out, holidays, returns to theatres. But this time last year, would we honestly have wanted to know just what lay ahead? 

A year ago today, I started  my Covid Journal. I wanted to chronicle just what it was like to live through a pandemic - hoping, obviously, that we would indeed survive. I wanted to make sure I didn’t simply drift through what was happening, but to reflect upon it day by day. 

This was the day theatres closed and we were asked - not ordered - to stay at home. We were due to see Swan Lake at Covent Garden in two days - a life-long dream, and  to fly to Madeira that weekend. Everything, of course was cancelled. By the following Monday, full lockdown came: Boris’s phony Happy-Birthday-singing war on Covid was over -  the real battle was only just beginning. 

I’m  still writing now, a year on, though daily entries have now changed to weekly summaries. I’m not sure when or how we’ll know it’s over. One thing is certain; things will never be the same. 

Thanks to Cathy 1947 for hosting.