When I went to bed last night it was 75 degrees out. When I woke this morning it was 48, windows downstairs fogged to opaque. The day changes as the year does, dramatically, when you aren’t looking. I ate kale on New Year’s Day in a Belgian cafe in Greenwich Village. I ate Italian sausage at our dining room table last night, broccoli rabe with a ton of garlic, windows open to the breeze. Luna made a seamless run from window sill to Andrew’s lap. And 2015 leans toward its close. Practice. Reverence. Play. I began there. Two hundred pages later we dance to Vince Guaraldi while waiting for dinner guests. I weep to “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” in church on Christmas morning. Someone shit in the stairwell we took from the parking lot. Everything happening imperfectly. But 2015, it was a good year, in its grace and its improbabilities. Coyotes howled to sirens behind the fence. Cosmos bloomed at Christmas in the yard. I stood on a roll of white paper for a photo. You can’t predict. You can only pay attention. And most this year I did. I did.
December 27, 2015