Bittersweet

Taking down the Christmas decorations every year, I always feel a specific sort of starkness looming over me. January. It always seems gray to me. My house seems bare. I breathe in the smells as I wrap things up and put them in boxes. Cinnamon. Candle wax. Whatever pine cones smell like. It all gathers together and it's the same scent every single year. Tuck it all away. Step into a new year with new ambitions and passion. Neil Gaiman said to make mistakes, and I keep telling myself that as I wrap up the ornaments in tissue paper and pull beads off the tree. A few weeks ago, I didn't want to bother putting any of this up, and now I'm mourning it like the death of a dear friend. These are the moments I need to tuck away. This year, there is no snow yet. Flowers are blooming in some places and I think of mistakes and I wonder if mine are like flowers in December, coming at the craziest times only to be buried in snow weeks later. It's hard to know when or what will happen. In fact, it's impossible and I prefer it that way as I vacuum up the last of the pine needles from the tree - this bittersweet taste in my mouth, the sun setting outside as a new year welcomes me with open arms.