Walking into 2023 (prose) piece)

The thing is, you bring you into the new year. All the scars and the hurt. Chipped nails painted red and white from Christmas, a reminder of your imperfection. You were supposed to clean it off before the new year. But you forgot. And isn’t that just poetic?

I still feel the bloody bite marks left on my tongue from things left unsaid last year. The pile of university text books left open, stacked haphazardly on the ottoman in the living room, as if being left open means the information will crawl out of the pages and into my mind. That Amazon parcel packaging still sitting on the side, waiting for the address to be scribbled off. The positive covid test on the kitchen table, a reminder that good health and good intentions doesn’t make you invincible and even a virus can cling to your organs and follow you into a new year. It does not care that you wanted a blank slate.

But as I wake on this fresh morning, I hear birdsong and feel the cool breeze from the back door I left open for the dog to piss. And I know it’s okay. The baggage, the semi colons, the things left undone are okay. The frayed edges and imperfections are okay. I can get to them later, and it’ll still be done. It can still be done. And for now, the Christmas lights still twinkle. The casual magic needed to appreciate the little lightness that makes a day worth waking up to.

So wake up. Wake. And bring everything with you from before. It’s okay.