It is. I keep reminding myself. Was. Has been. Wonderful.
I fully believed it a month ago, when the world first lay white at our feet, crowds bustled, and the air positively glistened with crisp anticipation. Then. Then came the mocking commentary: "It's the most wonderful time of the year," he'd singsong in a phony voice, eyebrow raised in irony. Mocking the good intentions, hardening the reality, hardening the icy crust around my heart.
And I started to hate bits of it. Obligations. Inanities.
I baked. With joy at first. I baked for escape at times. But mostly it was joy.
Now it's (almost) all over (we take the train home tomorrow) and I feel sad. I'm not sure why. Sigh.
I pass Helena a box of tissues. "I need just one Kleeneck, Mommy."
We travelled, ate, and drank. We played cards. I've read very little (after loving Dumas all through December, Bolaño bores me), written less, neglected friends.
I don't make resolutions. Never have. At least not the first-of-January kind. They are the early spring and the midsummer kind, the anyday resolution, to change, to shake things up, to just do something.
Except this year. I resolve to write. Daily. Not here necessarily. I mean, to write — for it to be shaped into something bigger. For some reason, even this makes me sad.