We got to it this morning, ripping down the Hello Kitty reliefs and Cinnamoroll lights from their masking tape moorings on the wall; stacked the cards with their repeated motifs of trees, bearded men and penguins and scribbled pleasantries that will never be read again; stripped the tiny fake tree and closed it up like a dried out brolly to slide into a thin box that stacks neatly within a bigger one.
It’s January now, here to remind us how bleak a beginning can be; that the daffodils might shoot up earlier each year but never this early – they’re hunkered down deep but will break their thresholds before we can clamber out of our overdrafts.
Whatever djinn of bad fortune has been keeping his eyes peeled for the household that hasn’t yet flung a stunted conifer beyond their threshold, may his gaze miss our poky little hearth –
the year that’s gone was unlucky enough, and we’re not asking for loaded dice, rollover jackpots or for every dropped slice to land butter side up.
Just let us pack the old year into another little box; sprinkle a pinch of dust to aid a slight, subtle forgetting; let our delusions remain hopes a little longer.
6/1/2026
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