Words nest on my phone by the time it’s November. Scribbled in the skywalk on my way to work. Typed furiously between meetings and happy hours and volunteering. Words that naturally mold into ideas and lessons throughout another year, culminating in my annual birthday blog post.
I’m almost out of words this year. The words I have left for 23 are fragmented at best. They exist in the infusion room, doctor’s offices, the beige and maroon waiting rooms that blur into the muted color of anticipation and silent hand squeezes.
November woke me up with a nightmare, a subconscious convergence of 2016’s lurking badness. At 3 a.m. on Nov. 1, I poured a mug of peach tea and nested not in my orderly life lessons but in the dull throbbing of a dark year. Even in my aggressively neat apartment, I felt unkempt.
I swirled the tea bag in my cup, watching the orange color form a tiny tornado before staining the water, the two indistinguishable. Sometimes I have a hard time distinguishing the good from bad in 2016; it all steeps into a murky, steaming blend that stings my lips if I sip it too soon. I am still letting 2016 and 23 cool. Maybe they never will. Continue reading