The Liturgy of Anticipation

I am in a state of free fall. Flying at atomic speeds through space and time with nothing to hold onto and no end in sight.

In terms of the new year, well, what is there to say about it, other than this was the first year I was asleep before midnight since I was a child. Thinking, as you do, of many things. Milk and vodka coating the throat and doing a very bad job of masking the smell of sour spice. Leftover Chinese food, certainly gone bad after sitting this long. In a state of congealedness. Checking the map, checking the map. Charting the stars. Last year I was thinking of the one I called The Butcher. Now, now—I don’t name people like that anymore. It’s crazy to look back on a year, let alone two or three. It is that quote. Day to day nothing changes. I look tenderly into last January. She was a moron. 

The bubble finally did burst, one night I cannot remember which, although the tree was still up and glowing maliciously, if that gives any indication—with the, shall I say, category five meltdown all over the living room couch. My poor mother, poor mother who had not seen me cry like that in years, except perhaps the few tears shed at the airport in between. My baby brother rubbing my feet. It was masterful the way she handled it, truly. It was like watching an ER nurse snap into action, the way she rearranged the pillows and made me lie down. The orders barked at my brother. And, well. Sometimes this is how it gets fixed. 

It’s a bit sad to think about anyone in your life having some kind of episode by themselves on the bathroom floor, and when they’re finished, just quietly getting up and drinking a glass of water by their lonesome. This is a terrible thing to think of. It’s good that we can take care of ourselves. But we shouldn’t have to. 

Anyway, I felt like a baby for about an hour, being coddled through the hiccups and tears, and she, I could certainly tell, felt like a young mother again. Your babies are always just that. And thank God for it. And so, I felt better. It was a weight off. 

Iowa is a very illuminating place for me, clearly. The beginning of this year feels like being at the top of a drop on a roller coaster. I feel like the ‘word of the year’ should be inevitable although that feels a bit sinister. Maybe the word of the year should be duh. Or obvious. I feel like that’s already the way it’s going. Last year was one of resilience. For the body to create calluses and harden itself against the wind, for the wounds to marinate until they were no more. I thought we could ripen into mush together under a fat sagging sky. I was so sure. I used to be so sure about a lot of things. 

I know that the middle class upbringing reeked off of me, that the American flag coded into my biology was an issue for you. Crinkling your nose in disgust. These things are no longer insecurities for me. A lot of these problems, a lot of these knots of unsolvable tortures unraveled themselves with minimal prompting. They just needed the fresh air to work themselves out. Maybe 2025 wasn’t the year of anything. But the last week of 2025, well. I became so much of a person in that week. I shed so much dead skin. I washed you off, finally, and forgave myself for things I didn’t even do, and even more momentous, forgave myself for things I absolutely did. 

I sought the answers on the other side of the globe. They weren’t there, though. Then they told me to look internally. They weren’t there, either. Know where they were? The last place I looked. In my backyard, under the picnic blanket, frozen to the ground. 

 January this year, like many of the months that I’ve experienced lately, has felt like trudging. Having to high-knee through deep mud. It’s what it feels like. But for how much longer? For the first time in a long time, I see a faint glow on the horizon—daybreak.