The New Day

New Year is always an odd time for me.

I tend to think a lot about time, and my perception of it. And anniversaries of things, and how I always find it strange that life sometimes moves in slow, swirling circles, even as it moves you into the future, and when you come back to a space or a scent that reminds you of something that’s gone, you bring that forward with you.

New Year’s Eve always seems timeless to me, because I spend it with, usually, the same friends I’ve spent virtually all of my teenaged and adult New Year’s with. Things ebb and flow and it isn’t always exactly the same people, but it’s always the same group. And it’s wonderful. They’re brilliant and bonkers and creative and clever, and I adore them. And so every New Year feels like a link in a long, lovely chain, leading on to something else wonderful.

New Year’s Day is the anniversary of the day my grandmother died. She made it to the new year, and then it was time. So it’s a reminder that all things change. Things end, and other things begin. We miss them, and we bring them with us.

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