A New Year
I’m going to ignore 2025 and pretend it doesn’t exist. I fear nothing good is going to happen this year, so I’m retreating to my inner convent, wearing my habit of corduroy pants one size too big and a sloppy fleece.
Why this lack of engagement, you might ask? Or not. Since I’m cloistered, I really won’t be able to respond to your ennui about my existence.
The world is too much with me. I must shed it.
2025 will bring the clown show back to Washington. I feel a certain delight, knowing that all the fools who voted for Trump will get exactly what they deserve. Now they’re wondering if he’ll cut their benefits. Of course, he will. But they’ll still have white power to keep them warm. And their many conspiracy theories, not to mention their guns.
Wait. Blood pressure rising. I retreat.
The Middle East. Death and destruction everywhere I look, and no one seems to want to end it. Except those whose voices don’t matter, hostage families, homeless Gazans. Well, they’re only the little people, aren’t they? We have to assuage the big egos in the game for whom human life isn’t as important as their political standing.
Pulse rising.
Ukraine. My grandfather was born in Ukraine. Somehow he made it to the Goldene Medina and ended up selling bananas on the streets of Utica, New York. A lucky escape for my family. But what about those still living there, especially with the upcoming love fest between Trump and dear leader Putin?
I close my eyes.
There was a time when I delighted in the new year. Except for writing the wrong year on checks. Well, I don’t have to worry about that now since no one uses checks anymore.
New year, new beginnings, new effort to lose weight. I stopped with that resolution a long time ago.
And what about getting a date for New Year’s Eve? It’s almost as bad as Valentine’s Day.
I did have a few wonderful New Year’s Eves. There was the time my new husband and I went into New York City—is there any other city?—and attended a concert by P.D.Q. Bach. So sad Peter Schickele is no longer with us because those concerts were a delight. Afterward we went to Time’s Square for the big ball drop. And then to the Rainbow Room for drinks.
Later, when we were older and not able to reach the City, we would go to Light Opera Works to hear a bit of froth, then home we came.
As time went on, our first grandchild used to stay with us on New Year’s Eve. He’d go to sleep, but was determined to be woken up for the big event. It was easy, as we live in the Central Time Zone, so he could see the ball drop in Time’s Square, then I’d flick through the television stations to see what other celebrations were going on. Then off he would go to bed again.
But now what does the changing of a date matter? I see nothing ahead except the world falling apart. Countries choosing their own demise. No vaccinations, no safety net, no tolerance, no civility, no democracy.
I turn inward to a place of safety, hoping not to be swept away by a tsunami of disasters not of my making.