How to wear the new year.

I don’t usually receive Christmas presents… Last year was a fluke, and just a product from the job I was working.

This year, I expected my Christmas to be the same as the previous years. Stay at home, inside, with my pup (and now a kitten), and a few bottles of wine.

So imagine my surprise when I look out my front door to see this on the porch.

Haha… yes. This my friends, is a real Christmas gift for a girl like me.

One part Ciroc Vodka. (My favorite.)
One part orange tic-tacs. (Due to a story.)
One part obligatory Frank note. (To be added to the collection on my refrigerator and bulletin board.)

… And that is how you wear the new year.

(Thanks Frank. It means a lot.)

And it finally closed.

Almost four months and it’s still a bitter ache.

If I were a smart girl I would have recognized the number. No good things happen on 17. But that month, and the two prior to it I couldn’t see clearly. Never before had I been so close to a situation that objectivity was lost. Previously, that was something I prided myself on. Objectivity and observation.

A system installed one night when I was 13. When I heard words spoken around this subject and decided it was truth. A truth meant to be applied to my life.

The first few months inside of that place I was criticized for my distance. He told me to open up, that this was a safe place. That the people here were good. They were the kind worth knowing. It was the day he told me he’d know me for the rest of his life. That when I was an old lady he’d walk by my house to see me working in my gardens. He described the hat and all. He was a cheesy man who said things like, “I know your soul” and “We were meant to be under the same roof”. After a while, I grew accustomed to his breed. I danced around it, knowing the spots to hit, and the holes to avoid. I was something of a voice of reason. His wife would call when he was blue, asking for my input, my help.

Even now, I can’t properly write the story as it were. Still a bit blinded by the intensity of the downfall.

One night, as I cried behind the building I was told that I would never find a place like this again. That in every person’s history, they only get one of these. -Those words, not an easy thing to swallow. To think, nothing as great could ever happen again. The stubborn part of me decided not to fall for the words. Their words could be a product of bitter experiences. These things have to happen more than once. They have to.

But now, I understand what was meant. -You can’t unpop a cherry.

I’m not a person that lets go of events, people, or things. I’m a rememberer. It hurts to be this most of the time. Every word a rock thrown. A certain fake toughness has to coat a person, in order for you to survive your memories. I always thought letting go was a lot like forgetting. -Something which I cannot do.

Memories, even the great ones, hurt to carry around day after day, year after year. Each one a small weight tied to your being. There will be days when you rejoice and have the ability to fly through them and be dazzled by the brilliance of colors and shading. But, most of the time, it isn’t like that. You have to be prepared for that weight. You sacrifice your weightlessness to have these things sewn to you.

In hopes of wrapping the wound, I’m letting go of this particular story, and all her memories. I can’t promise I won’t forget, though the odds are unlikely. I cannot carry you around anymore. All of you have been tainted by the last day I served. It would not be accurate.

Please, blow away with the wind. You’re no longer mine.

(Deep breath.)