A Eulogy for the Year, the Only Month that Breathes

December is the only month that exists. When November ends, it’s as if my life tunnel-visions itself into December, and nothing else exists anymore. It’s December, and suddenly you are not the age you started the year off as, and you never will be again. It’s December, the final reminder that all things come to an end, good and bad. If December could speak, it would be in a hushed whisper. It would speak softly, almost to the point of incoherency, but not in a way where one keeps a secret but rather as not to disturb the sound of boots crunching through freshly fallen snow and the static of streetlamps lighting dark alleyways. It’s December, and there is now one more year stretching between the people I used to be friends with, those I used to love, and my childhood. One more year between me and the girl I used to be, but I still remember. 

Winter always creeps under my skin like imprecise grief, a quiet but steady presence that tempts me into lethargy. I always dread winter except in December, when I seem to embrace it with open arms. In December, I seem to be more forgiving. How harsh the snow is in November, how cold it is, how much I despise the ice and the sun setting before the workday ends. But in December, it’s almost magical. The crisp air greets me every morning, and though I can’t quite feel the tips of my fingers and toes, it feels like a renewal of some sort. The snow is no longer something that dampens my plans but rather a clean slate, cleansing me of all my wounds from this year. It’s a bit funny, the way that I am quite horrid at accepting change, except in December, the finale of finales. We’re at the end in December, but instead of the existential dread that seems called for at this time of year, I can’t help but dream of all the things to come and all that I will be. 

This December, I am lit with something new. This December, when I crawl into bed at the end of the day, it does not feel like slipping into a damp cave in preparation for months of hibernation. Instead, when I clamber under my comforter, I feel like I’m folding in between the pages of a bedtime story, a tale written decades ago but some Mother out there knows the anecdote like the back of her hand because it’s her baby’s favorite one. Sometimes, I swear I can hear her voice slowly lulling me into a dreamless sleep. 

Last December, I made a silent pact with myself to lock away my vulnerability behind iron bars, vowing never to let my heart become stained by the grease and fingerprints of others’ hands. Last December, I was still putting myself back together from my fragmented summer, grief and pain still lingering around my limbs like a shadow. This December, I find myself struggling to stay true to this promise I made to myself, minor cracks in the surface of my shield. I do not mind though, allowing myself this reprieve and doing justice to my soul to simply let myself experience the little things in life. Last December I was rereading old poetry and love letters as if I was giving in to the urge of suicidal tendencies, and this December I find my hands itching to write about someone new. What a scary thought! What a beautiful progression of life! 

By next December, there is a good possibility that this feeling will be long gone. There is a possibility that circumstances may implode in my face within a month’s time, but I can not help but feel ignorantly blissful in the now. Maybe because it’s December and things always seem a bit more hopeful in the only month that exists. And in the case that I am back at square one, that I am once again let down by the throes of baring my soul to a man, I will never regret the courage it is taking for me to become vulnerable again. Things may not come to fruition, and it will hurt. But it will also pass, as all things do, good or bad. 

I drink December in like a fresh whiskey cocktail. It is sweet and sour all in one, the burn in my throat is the remnant of November. December sometimes feels like the first day of my life. In December, I am simply happy to just be alive, to have made it through the war that was this year. I left my carcass in October and slipped into new skin in November. December is a rebirth, a reincarnation so plain and easy. All year long, everyone is in a great panic, rushing around and tapping their feet to make time go by faster as if getting the most out of life is to achieve something beyond themselves. In December, I am celebrating myself for simply being, for simply feeling. 

December’s breath fogs up the window of my home. Old traditions and new friends in December, making amends and tying up loose ends. Snow falls from the sky like ashes of who I was in January, and I let them melt beneath my feet. In December, I will love you like I did in May, in September, in November. In December, I hold my breath and still hope for all my wishes to come true.