And So, We Begin Again

The sky lowers and the land disappears. A turning wind blankets the moon with sea-born fog, shrouding the contours of its glittering face.  Harsh and brilliant above the fog, riding high behind fast-scudding clouds, it lights the transition between old and new, between one year and the next.

As the hours pass toward midnight, a lingering few stand silent, shrouded in a fog of thought, tangled in life’s web, caught between the Land-of-No-Longer and the Land-of-Yet-to-Be. Perhaps they glimpse a moonlit shard of truth hidden to revelers in the street – this is the way of life.  What has been passes away into forgetfulness, even as the yet-to-be stirs toward vitality. Armies rise. Nations fall. Children squall into existence, wailing for the grandparents who sigh away into death. Across the farthest reaches of the galaxies, even the least star explodes with pulsating light while on our own shy, spinning globe, rotting leaves and the stench of mud evoke a season’s final turn.

Grandma’s New Year’s Toss

 

I’ll grant you this.  I rarely know where my car keys are parked and often I’m not certain I picked up the mail.  Sometimes I write out old-fashioned birthday cards, the kind that require an address and stamp, and forget to send them.  I’ve been known to run the same load of laundry twice, and on days when I’m particularly preoccupied, I sometimes neglect to feed the cat.

On the other hand, I can envision my grandparents’ house so clearly I might have hung the pail on the pump only moments ago before hopscotching down the sidewalk, away from chores and into the freedom of the afternoon.  It’s a mystery of increasing years that early memories sharpen, taking on the vivid nature of repetitive dreams.  My grandfather’s tool bench with its chisels and awls aligned like choirboys, tallest to least, the women clustered and twittering on the porch, stitching radishes and carrots across acres of tea towels while I smooth buttons between my fingers, sorting them into shimmering piles of abalone, copper and jet – I can bring the images to mind in a moment.

Memory, of course, is far more than intentional recall.   As New Year’s Eve approaches, Proustian moments abound.   My kitchen is redolent of ginger, cardamon and clove, the same spices that simmered on my grandmother’s stove.   The scent of cut pine, the mustiness of mittens drying on a heat vent, a slight tang of cedar hovering about tablecloths drawn from storage for the holidays - a single whiff sends me off to stand again between great, squared mahogany columns, sentries guarding the mistletoe ball hung where everyone passes.  If I’m a lucky child, I’ll get a kiss.  If I’m even luckier, I’ll get candy, and if you give me just the right piece of candy today – paper-thin ribbons, or a chocolate covered cherry, or tiny, crisp pillows filled with fondant - I’ll give you the number of holes in the iron heat grating in the floor, the bend of morning glories twining up sheer curtains breathing at the window, the shape and color of  ribbons worn by Uncle Jack, who was killed in the War and who gazes at our merriment from his frame, impassive and proud.