Midnight

Counted one, maybe two cars on the usually packed four lane street. A bus sped, a minute before the new year. We counted down, but no celebratory cheers. I remembered crunching into snow as a child, on the stoop of our house, with the horn. The fireworks spit up over downtown. We can see the skyline from the edge of the balcony. I wondered who set them off. Glittery and red. Silver pops. It looked professional, but did our city do it? The bar across the street dark. I wanted to watch for longer than I thought I would. The tears came too. So much relief to have made it, pride. But also the crushing weight of insanity we've all felt this year. How this is normal now. Not a soul on the sidewalk, no clacking of heels, the excitement hisses out like an old balloon. I've always had a new beginning at the year. Semesters or jobs changing or even a gust of what will be. Instead I stare down the upcoming twelve months in groundless imbalance. More of the same, and the same wasn't particularly welcome. There's nothing on the entire calendar. I logically made the peace it's likely next year looks no different. When will I embrace a friend again? There's no way to know. I thought I'd settled on another 365 of isolated life, but then I read an article about vaccines being rolled out so poorly millions may expire on the vine. At this rate, the culture we used to know returns in seven years. And I know these are safe crying gasps, here, seated on the weight bench. I'm not going to go hungry or homeless or die alone in the ICU (I don't think). But it feels good to feel. Because there's only so much pivoting a human can do before they no longer trust their own self. I don't make promises I can't keep.