(The New Year)
I create a trophy that I can award myself at the end of the year for “being good.” It’s ugly, and hastily assembled, and coated in layer after layer of metallic paint, but it’s unique. No one else will have one.
I store it far in the back of my closet, and try my best to forget what it looks like so it’s a surprise when I present it to the intended recipient (me.)
Is Spring joyful for anyone else? To me it feels intensely chaotic. The burgeoning, the blooming, the ecstatic way in which creatures begin to mate and reproduce.
I long for the winter to begin again; the meta version of hitting snooze at six a.m.
It’s far too early for all of this.
Time has flown and I’m realizing I let it go without much direction from me.
Now is when I resolve to really get my shit together.
The heat is more intense than I remember, and I’m grateful for the one good thing I’ve done all year: gotten into shape.
This is when I come alive. The dip in temperature allows me to make use of my wardrobe which is almost exclusively fall and winter-wear.
When it’s warmer inside than it is out, I do my best work.
It feels appropriate to be inside, letting the muddled sound of coffeeshop jazz and clinking ceramic and whirring of machinery lull me into productivity.
I did it. I finished what I started. Granted, I started a mere three months ago, but I finished. Perhaps I need nine months to observe.
Maybe my body responds to the cues of nature, to gather and assemble everything I’ve found in
preparation for hibernation.
I turn in my work and celebrate.
After one or three glasses of wine, I remember my award. I stumble to my closet.
In this state, dimmed and deluded by alcohol, my trophy is an apt tribute.
I rest it on my nightstand.
In bed, I look up at it and allow it to loom over me.
The award is bigger than I am.
It tells me I can sleep peacefully for once, because I finally finished what I started.