January feels like an aftermath, like recovering from a night of heavy drinking, a night where I ask myself questions the next day, like, did I really say that—out loud? And, why am I naked? This January I question everything. I can’t remember what we bought, who we saw, who I may have neglected by mistake, what I left out, or where I am right now. Where am I? I feel like I’m forgetting something.
The holidays howled, bellowed, flirted, and raved. At the time I felt their ominous glory like a storm that promises a snow day. Now, in the stillness, I’m not even sure what happened.
Dew on this poinsettia greeted me like morning-after medicine. Medicine for my after-holiday-hangover. Medicine for loneliness. Medicine for identity crisis. Medicine for existential crisis.
My friend brought that poinsettia for a casual get-together during the holidays—a bright red boost, with all its tradition, goodwill, and color. As soon as I saw it I beamed, “For me? Thank you!” I felt our house had been anointed.
That evening has passed. Maybe a lot has passed. It felt important at the time. But it’s over now, and with it, my purpose shifts. I fear I might evaporate like my faded memories. But I notice this plant. It reminds me of my friend. It reminds me that the evening was, in fact, real. And well spent.
Before I cave to new pressure, pressure to march into the new year boldly, or to take careful stock, thoughtfully consider new goals, then ravish the days with steely determination, I have to stop and gain my bearings. I’m steadied by the sight of this plant. Its bright red petals are flags of goodness, now ablaze with pearls of light. Maybe I’m a poinsettia. My arms—my heart—spreads itself like petals, reaching, hoping, frail, tender, ablaze, and before I expire, perhaps, I am consecrated in light.
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