I will begin December with an open heart to closed expectations. I will let go of old hurts and nightmares and take in peaceful sleeps. December will bring its celebrations and wrapping paper, along with its decorations I love. And I will let the days come in their usual clumsy and rapid way. This is the December, the beginning of an end — and I will put it silently to bed as I would a child. I will tuck it in, kiss it on its forehead and slowly walk out of the room before it asks for one last story.
December’s one last story would be of me, and it hasn’t been finished yet. I still dangle, waiting for something I don’t yet know, and simply sway when branches move. Hanging amongst the lights I’ll wait, and then… then the story will finish with a flourish. Or not. We’ll see.