Welcome back, old friend.
I can say that, right? I mean, I may consider you a friend?
You’ve done this 42 times with me, and for 43 I expect more of the same.
Your drama. Your annoyance. Your cruelty.
In so many ways, we are so alike.
Neither of us wants to own that.
We’d rather pretend we are nothing but pretty.
Innocent and pure and pristine perfection.
But underneath the murkiness runs thick.
We will shed our snow-white veneer and reveal our rich, muddy countenance of life when it’s time to depart for another year. We’re not there yet. No, we’ve only just begun. There’s a long road ahead. That’s how you like it – with your evergreen décor, your dried grasses swaying in the wind, and your insatiable desire to wreak havoc with the sky. You open big – with the shortest day of the year – but you start receding as soon as you appear. The days will only get longer until it’s summer again.
Only then will I forgive you.
It’s what friends do.
