Oh, praise the stars and moon, the awesomeness of Jupiter’s and Saturn’s brilliant kiss, the rivers of compassion and grit. Of finding succor for our heartaches, mind-melts, fear and loneliness. For seeing that by acknowledging our deep grievousness and wrongs we are presented with a sacred opportunity to change.
And, hallelujah! There’s the real possibility we will finally see family and friends, and kiss and hug like our life depends upon them. And now, perhaps, the time comes to actually care what I wear, that it be free of stains and rips, and doesn’t droop or sag beyond the strict necessity to hide widened hips and protruding stomach. And comb my hair and put on lipstick and earrings–though not go overboard and think months of bare feet will accept high heels–before pulling the husband to the front door to once more join in screams and pot banging and ringing the very bell that in the summer tolled in celebration of all the nurses and doctors and ambulance drivers and hospital workers and grocery store workers. Also our mail, UPS and FedEx delivers and the increasingly ubiquitous Amazon vans and their drivers. And especially our corner bodega guy who managed to stay open through these endless days, becoming our savior with emergency provisions of milk and bread and always, always, through his mask dispensing cheerful blessings for our safety.
Turn, then, to the south-eastern sky where we thrill to a spectacle that once seemed trivial but our hungry eyes now recognize as a magical portent of rebirth. Right there, blooming up from the horizon, exploding over Coney Island for all of us to gasp in wonder.
Happy New Year, my dear readers!
Banner image credit: Maite H. Mateo