December, too, is a cruel month. A month of deaths and lives extinguished abruptly, a month of births and promises of the future, a month of shadow and the suggestions of light.
It's dark so early now; I'm lighting scented candles and fluffing the pillows and drinking (even more) tea and trying to slow down even if my thoughts are racing.
There are some traditions that were gifted to us and some that were expected of us and some that we choose to create. What do you keep going, when no one expects you to anymore?
Poinsettias and ponche-de-crème and pastelles and parang even if there are no gatherings because those with whom you want to gather are in countries inaccessible to you, even if the parang is a playlist and not live paranderos, even if the pastelles are made with a tortilla press and the ponche-de-crème lacks the kick of White Oak.
What do you let go of, even when those around you would hold on to them?
We are spendthrifts with words,
We squander them,
Toss them like pennies in the air–
Shy words tiptoeing from mouth to ear.
—from Words by Pauli Murray