Bing. Easter hat parade.
Brrrr. Cross-country run.
Beep. Best mate's birthday dinner.
Ping. Football training.
Cancelled. Cancelled. Cancelled. Cancelled.
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Weekend away with visiting family? Flooded out.
Lunch with girlfriends? Three in iso, best reschedule.
My daughter signed up for AFL four weeks ago. Hasn't pulled on a boot yet. COVID. Rain. COVID. Rain.
My son spent all last night making a deeply strange Easter bonnet - a maniacal bunny sitting on the crown of his head. Super proud. This morning? Listless, pale, feverish. Benched.
How's your Easter looking? Third year in a row we're heading into it thinking - maybe? Maybe the holidays will happen. Maybe we'll get to go to that place we booked to do that thing we planned to do with those people we wanted to see.
Small potatoes, these things, in the scheme of the world and everything in it. In the face of the new, true horror of war, and of homes drowning in suffocating mud. In the face of 16 Australian women dead at the hands of men who were meant to love them. In the face of loved ones lost to this damned pandemic, and to hacking coughs and fainting fevers and countless people still grappling with never-ending lingering fatigue.