You count the years on your fingers, come up short, how could it possibly be this many? You flip through years of new year's letters, see how they've amassed under your thumb. Read the cynical hopefulness of your youth, watch it wax and wane through the years. How many of them speak of New York, of the word, how clear it is that the person who is you today was you already decades ago.
The new year arrives with thaw, you wake to birdsong before dawn, everything feels like late March when life returns. Maybe it's an omen. You wonder if you can muster the optimism again, if you can lift yourself into a new year as though the darkness in your flesh was but a light whisper to be brushed off. On the first day of the year, does it not always seem possible? You take deep breaths and muster the willcourage.
We have dreamed so many things into existence already.
It doesn't seem impossible that we could
make another miracle before we are
done.
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