Dammit! I just got used to 2014

A year. It seems like such a long time. A second can seem like enough time, under the right circumstances, but a year? A year can seem monumental or unbelievably short,any measure of time can. The last day of the year is a good day to get introspective I guess, provided you aren’t a serial killer or something else equally disturbing.

I digress, December 31st, 2014, it is just another day, but when it sends, you have to start getting used to dating things XX-XX-15. Sometimes this seems like the hardest part of a new year, remembering to date the year correctly. Maybe it is only a big deal to me, I am sort of calendar obsessed.

It upsets me that I probably  won’t be alive for the next 12-12-12 or 04-04-04, unless science really kicks it up a notch in terms of lengthening life spans. My joy when the day, the month and the year are in some way in accordance is very disproportionate, but what the heck, we all have our own idiosyncrasies, and as they go, this isn’t such a rare one.

In any event, as people are going about, welcoming the new year, I am sitting here and thinking, “Dammit! I just got used to thinking it was 2014!”



The picture of you two is striking, the word is perfect to describe what I see, far before my lifetime.

Neither of you are smiling. I feel happy looking at it. You are beautiful, he is dapper. You are not as I see you today, carrying the marks of the last five decades with you– adorable, smiling figures who welcome me with love every vacation.

I see you today, content or angry, and I wonder about my future. The ego-centricism is showing, I know. Will I be like you one day, or will my life follow a different path entirely? You look at me, facing the camera head-on from the past.

I found another photograph, cake in one of your hands as you feed the other, the family looking on.

From the stern to the smiling, the transition is strange but natural. You retain your beauty and he his whiskers and neatly parted hair. The short hair I played with as a child, combing into white tufts that stood up from your scalp.

Today everything has changed, the joy I found being with you is marred by worry. You were often anxious about me then. The roles are reversed, I worry about you: one of you has forgotten me, the other constantly fretting about everything. The foundation of my childhood is gone, the stability I saw from your hand-made birthday cards, lemon juice in the sweltering summers, stories and phone calls has left me; bereft of your comfort.

For eighteen years you defined summer for me, your home my second. The white walls, the carpets, the ceilings, the brick mural, I have memorised all of them, just as I know your faces. They have not changed as much as we have.

I dream of those summers.