The year begins in isolation, pandemic-weary New Yorkers wrapping their coats tighter around themselves, wrapping their houses tighter around themselves, the winter winds arrive at last. They say when a bird poops on you it brings you good luck, and I have to remind myself on repeat after two birds bring me good luck within a minute's time. I spent half an hour looking for clover along the river but this is how the Universe chooses to wink at me, what can we do but shrug and smile. I pore over strange powders in the Indian store downstairs, consider roots and peppers, converse with my body about how we want to embrace this year. All these strange years where we can barely believe in another day, how dare we hold hope in our hands still?
I take another long bath and find the tenement water tank won't fill a tub, I lie shivering beneath the open window. This is not an omen, nor a metaphor. The new year is upon us.
For a moment: no more, no less.
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