Let's pretend.

Pick up the clock. You need to slide your hand up behind it the way you scoop up a long slice of pizza. It's hot and melted, but it knows how to hold together. It knew once. Cradle the clock, dry it out. Dry bowl of rice, half an hour in the freezer. Firm, ready to roll out. Use a sharp knife and cut vents into it that tell you it's now. Bake and turn it over while hot; underneath is the new now. It was always there, but it wasn't ready yet. It isn't ready now. But we are. 

Let's pretend that what we did this year was enough. Add it up: all the things that you learned to cook for yourself and every time you pinned a $20 to the door to tip someone who had to bring you what you could not. I add up my submissions, my acceptances. I think about the sorry/wonderful fact that I published two books this year; both times felt like throwing a birthday party where nobody came. Everything happening somewhere else, everything will be later. Later. When lockdown ends. When cases settle down. When we've all had the shot. Let's pretend we're all going to get the shot. Let's pretend it'll be soon. 

Pretend that next year will be better. Magically as we turn the page, but also because we're going to work to make it better. We're going to bring the patience we've cultivated kneading bread and corralling undersocialized children and share that with each other. We're going to remember all the books and poems and stories that we read and the hours spent on Duolingo and mingle it together, pour it into the fountain of our common life and watch the colors change. We're going to remember how it felt to know every face and friend in those two dimensions only and treat each other with 3D adoration as soon as we can. Let's pretend we know when that is. 

Pretend we know where we're going. That we're bringing these important things that we've learned. I've learned that I'm more of an extrovert than I thought I was. Once a week I find that I have to check in on myself, that my despair and listlessness are just laying heavily on my chest like two cats who just want to be fed. I'm not sad; I'm just locked inside my house away from 60% of what makes me happy (I cringe to even write the number; it is so much more than I thought it was last year). 

I keep having this dream that it's over. There are throngs of people in the street, and we're so relieved that it feels ebullient and celebratory. We're dancing and singing and strangers reach out to touch. There are Christmas lights and New Years lanterns, glowing pumpkins and red-heart chocolate boxes. Every window and door are open, spilling music on the sidewalk. I wake up aglow like someone put a lit tea light inside my hollow heart. I pretend it's real. Belief is pretending's neighbor, after all. They borrrow each other's tools all the time. 

Pick up the clock. It's tired now, loose in the neck like a puppy or a baby deep in REM sleep. You have to slide your hand behind it and hold it close to your body to keep it from waking up. Pretend it's not our enemy. Pretend pretend that you'll wake up holding its hand, soft as a newborn, wise as an old dog. The world turns and the sun doesn't move and the seasons change and this all matters to us so much that we pretend it rules everything. 

Keep pretending. Tomorrow is a new day, new year, new now. That means it can be anything. 

Pretend. Believe. Pick up the clock. 

Happy New Year, 

Meg