Arriving

The wind rages through the night, turning over restaurant awnings and newspaper boxes. For the first time in a year, I sleep well into the late morning; it feels like a gift I do not know how to unwrap without guilt. The apartment is a mess of celebration and light, it's a sweet awakening in a silent day. You decide not to carry anyone else's grief on your shoulders. Not today. 

You have plenty of your own, and as this year draws to a close, your muscles are weary of the work. 

They say not to believe the sun will rise on January 1st with all the ills of the old year wiped clean, but it is too tempting not to. This year has dragged us through the mud and left us there, with nothing but our daydreams and memories of clear skies for solace. 

And yet. 

And yet, I leave this year with a clarity that could not have come without the dirt along my hem, with a longing for sparks that would not have set itself on fire in my chest had I not gone so long in stillness. What you want out of this life is becoming clear now, only through the mist of what you have not been allowed. We will stumble out of this madness like after a long illness, smelling the spring air as though it had never carried so sweet a scent. 

This holiday afforded me a chance to sit in the stillness, to hold myself in gentle kindness, and to reaffirm my vows to the city which has weathered every storm it has encountered since we first met. There is no greater gift than to find love, in whatever manner it appears, and love will not let itself be dispersed merely by global disasters and sorrow. 

So you see, this year was not for naught. You know, in truth, they never are.