New Year’s

Last year was a nightmare, an endless pit of despair. Each day we survived was a victory against the ever-present dragon guarding the treasure we seek.

This year will be better, brighter. The slate is wiped clean; we have room to create anew. Hope abounds as we look forward to a wealth of unblemished days.

Then again, we say these same words at the start of each new year. Somehow our hopes are never fulfilled. Different numbers on the calendar don’t erase the feeling of sinking into quicksand.

Perhaps, though, the year behind us wasn’t as tragic as it seemed. Maybe we invented the evil lurking in the shadows of our minds, a self-fulfilling prophecy we cannot seem to shake.

We look back on the year past and see only horror, when we should have focused on the blooming flowers, our lovers lips, tiny animal paws clacking on wooden floors. Our minds glaze over the memories of all the things that brought us joy.

Last year my bones were broken, my heart was broken, my spirit was broken. Those wounds left scars, but they all healed in the end. Now they only ache when it rains.

This year will be different, or not. It doesn’t really matter, because time is a made-up thing. I am a made-up thing too, and I will weave together the strands of the life I’ve long dreamt of.

Yardena Schwersky is a Jewish girl from the swamps of Florida, telling her story one essay and poem at a time. Join her newsletter, Letters on Being, for a weekly dispatch on life, stories you may have missed, and links to things she loves.