The Measure of a Year

I’d measure my year in strange ways. These past 365 days have gone by in three jobs, two cities, 12 bus trips, three bad haircuts, one stomach flu, two breakups, one new pet, four futons, five concerts and an unspecified number of times laid out on the floor staring at the ceiling with music blaring, trying not to think anymore.

In this span, I can reach out into my memories and touch the sense of events tied to each. I can smell the DC winter air as I rekindled a love that I can hardly recall. The taste of the wine I had before I caught the flu has kept me from drinking it since. Seeing all the landmarks of past and present loves wandering the streets of New York brings up youthful and romantic yearnings. And all the songs keep me in check; they are my heart’s rhythm. My thoughts and impulses are swayed by their sway.

The year cannot be measured in tears, laughter, or aspirations. They are too many to count, and each of these moments are a lifetime unto themselves.

And as the countdown to the next begins, I cannot help but count up all the whys and hows of the heres and nows.