Ledger of Late December [Wreath]
By the time the calendar limps to its last square and the coffee tastes like déjà vu and burnt toast,
You catch yourself doing math on the couch in a shirt with some stranger’s company logo,
Adding up the tiny wars you fought with yourself, the campaigns you abandoned,
The little victories no one clapped for, the defeats you dressed up as “learning experiences” so they’d hurt less when you thought about them at three in the morning.
The tree in the corner’s still half lit, one strand shorted out and blinking like a dying satellite in low orbit,
Ornaments listing sideways, hook scars in the branches where something fell and you didn’t bother to put it back,
Underneath, the gifts already opened sulk in a pile, their shine downgraded from “want” to “whatever” in under forty-eight hours,
And the wrapping paper has migrated into a trash bag that looks like a deflated parade balloon in the kitchen.
The floor holds glitter from some wild idea you had about “making it special this year,”Which somehow translated into being knee deep in tape, tangled tinsel, and a blister from scissors that were not built for ambition,
You step on a stray bit of sparkle and it sticks to your heel like a reminder that even trash can cling harder than people sometimes.
Year-end reflection isn’t a noble walk through memory, it’s more like wandering the aftermath of a party you threw for every version of you who swore that this would be the year,
Stepping over red plastic cups filled with half-finished habits,
Dodging the ashtrays of bad ideas you promised you’d “quit after this pack,”Finding the ghost of that January optimism lying face down on the rug with confetti stuck in its hair.
You remember January first like a drunk proposal from the universe,
Head pounding, feet freezing in the kitchen, writing impossible vows on napkins in shaky pen,“I’ll drink less.”“I’ll sleep more.”“I’ll finally finish that thing.”“I’ll call them.”The napkins now live in a coat pocket, washed into pulp in the machine or crumpled at the bottom of the junk drawer with dead batteries and rubber bands that died of old age.
Some days did land the way you swore they would, though it feels almost scandalous to admit it,
You actually showed up for yourself when no one was checking attendance,
You didn’t burn every bridge; some you just closed for repairs and secretly kept the keys,
You learned what your face looks like in the bathroom mirror when you say “no” and leave it there without a fifteen-minute apology tour.
There were nights where the weight on your chest felt like the ceiling was trying to lie down on you,
When the holidays just made it louder, the laughter from other people’s windows an echo that rattled in your own empty hallways,
When smiling in photos felt like holding up a cut-out of your own face,
But you did it anyway, because someone needed the memory more than you needed the truth in that moment.
The kitchen still smells like cinnamon and scorched sugar,
Some recipe you swore you wouldn’t ruin this time that still came out lopsided and a little too dark on the bottom,
Yet everyone swore it was “perfect” as they scraped the edges and you watched their mouths twitch with a kind of kindness you don’t always extend to yourself,
You’re starting to realize that “good enough” beats “never tried” in every game that actually counts.
There were messages you never sent, drafts full of raw apology and unvarnished honesty,
Lines like, “You hurt me,” and “I’m still mad,” and “I miss you even when I hate that I miss you,”Sitting unsent while you watched the typing dots appear and vanish from someone else’s name more times than you want to admit,
And yet, somehow, you both survived the silence, even if neither of you can call that survival pretty.
The year had its cold, sharp edges, its funerals and quiet exits,
Chairs at tables that stayed empty through every holiday, names you refuse to delete from your phone because the act feels like a second burial,
You lit candles in windows, on dashboards, in the back of your mind where memory burns without permission,
Whispered their names over sinkfuls of dishes, over late-night drives through salted streets,
And you carried them, clumsy but stubborn, through each new day that acted like nothing had happened.
Still, there were stupid, holy moments:Laughing so hard you almost choked on cheap soda in a parking lot after midnight,
Sharing fries in the car because the restaurant was “closing early for the holiday,”Finding your reflection in a storefront window and not immediately flinching,
Letting someone touch your shoulder, your cheek, your tired heart without turning it into a crime scene.
Year-end reflection is not just guilt dressed in a sweater; it’s a messy audit of what you refused to let kill you,
The mornings you rolled out of bed when your brain whispered, “why bother,”The nights you didn’t text that person back, because growth sometimes looks exactly like letting a ghost stay gone,
The hobbies you picked up for three days and abandoned, but at least you tried something that wasn’t self-destruction for once.
You count the scars you don’t have to hide anymore, the parts of you that stopped apologizing for existing,
The opinions you finally voiced at tables where you used to sit silent, stacking words on your tongue like plates waiting to be washed,
The boundaries you set and then had the nerve to enforce, even when somebody rolled their eyes like you’d committed a crime against tradition.
There’s a calendar on the wall, each month splashed with some scenic lie about balance and serenity,
Every square cluttered with scribbles, appointments, cancellations, little words like “dentist” and “therapy” and “call Mom” fighting for space,
You look at all those crossed-out days and realize you were there for each of them,
Even the ones that blurred into each other like snow in the headlights,
You were the common denominator in your own chaos, the one who kept waking up and trying again, even when trying just meant showering and not cursing out the world before noon.
Soon there will be another countdown, another noisy promise of clean slates and sparkling futures poured into plastic cups,
But right now, in this quieter hour, with the street outside half-frozen and the fridge humming like a tired choir,
It’s just you and the year that didn’t break you all the way,
Sitting on a couch that knows your shape,
Letting the truth arrive without balloons, without fireworks, without the pressure to suddenly become a different person because the last digit on the date flips over.
You are not who you were in January, even if the mirror swears it’s the same face,
You are patched, chipped, sharpened, a little more honest with yourself and a little less patient with bullshit,
You’ve lost some illusions and gained a few small, stubborn hopes that refuse to stay buried,
The kind that look like this: drinking water, texting first, saying “that hurt,” taking a nap without calling yourself lazy,
Showing up to your own life a little more often, and not always as the villain in your own head.
When the last day of the year finally staggers to the curb and drops its cigarette in a puddle of melted snow,
You’ll walk past the mirror, catch your own eyes and hold them this time,
Raise a quiet nod to the exhausted stranger who still showed up to the fight every single day,
And whisper, “We made it through that one. Somehow.”
The fireworks and countdowns can do what they want; they’re just noise and light in the sky,
The real celebration is this small, tired victory,
The fact that you’re still here to ask the harder question:Not “Who will I become this year,”But “Who did I manage to be, even when nobody was watching?”