A New Year

My eyes sweep the clutter around me, looking for material, wondering which one goes first, which one goes with what, which one stays where it is--I, who have no gift for organization, whose bed is lined with stray books that have no relation to each other, some odds, some ends, a pencil; who mixes up the days in the calendar; who has no calendar.

But the hand and mind grow more listless as the days pass; the year is about to end, that much I know. I find myself cleaning up, instead.

It is the broken heart that has gathered the most dust, so it is the first to go. Tear-stained records follow suit, and how can that empty beer bottle still be where it is? That corner looks like a good spot for a coffee table and a vase. I'll buy the flowers myself, I'll make sure to say. There were never any flowers. The room echoes with forgotten sobbing. Was there really that much crying? I laugh a little. They need to go, too, these echoes have no business being here. Ah, but this is turning into a more difficult task than I thought, and it wasn't even what I had set myself to do. The things we deliberately lose eventually catch up with us, don't they always? But there are ways to make things easier, there always is.

With haste, I throw things away. The trash bag quickly fills up. A handful of empty pens, strings of sadness, socks that don't match, bits of despair, an armless cup, leftover bitterness, a rusty, blunt-edged knife, a cracked plate, loneliness. I'm almost done.

No. I am done. I crumple one remaining piece of regret and shoot it into the expectant bag. How light it feels, how new.

I look for B. B. King and draw the curtains to let the light in. Here is music, here is sunlight. So much sunlight, beautiful sunlight.

I fix myself a cup of warm, fragrant tea. I am ready for the New Year.