It’s a year like any other, I’m told. I tell myself.
A year when the black cat comes to visit, and I feed it tuna, and gaze out at the yard.
A year when I don’t ask questions like “Where does time go?” because I already know.
A year with turbulent skies, strapped in, looking around the cabin, bobbing heads, stumbling stewardess, armful of trash.
It feels a bit unusual, but also a bit ordinary. I’m somewhere in the middle I suppose. Perhaps this is what they call ‘balance’, I think, standing on one foot.
A year with nowhere and everywhere to go.
A year when bongos beat in the mountains and I hear them without leaving bed.
A year when I knock snow from my shoes, get a haircut, adjust my glasses, and pour the darker of the two stouts ’cause the night smokes.
It feels like somewhere I’ve been before, but also a new planet, like the one they discovered last year, Kepler something-something.
Find a better name. Earth is so simple. Who came up with that?
Burnt out candles still smell like birthday cake, the sky is still a bug headlight, it’s 2016, and I’m still sane.