An Old Friend

Every year, December comes around again,

Like an old friend, 

One who you haven’t seen in a long time.

For many people, December brings happiness, and warmth.

While this is true, December itself is anything but.

To me, December is like an old man,

Wrapped up in sweaters,

With kind eyes, and thousands of stories.

He will sit with you as long as he can, recounting these tales of his youth.

Some of his stories are filled with magic and fireworks,

But some are packed with sadness, and tragedy.

You never know what stories he will tell when he stops by,

And sometimes it seems as if he doesn’t know either.

He has had a long life, December.

How else would he have so many stories, filled with love and loss.

When he eventually appears, 

Wrapped in his sweaters,

He will sit with you and ask you one question.

“What is this year’s story?”

The two of you will sit for a while,

Staring out at the last sunset of the year.

You will think.

December has so many stories to tell,

How could yours possibly be important?

As you reflect, December will watch.

Patiently waiting.

You will sit together for some time.

As you watch colors fade, so will the memories of this past year.

Everything that once seemed so important now feels like it was a million years ago,

But at the same time you don’t want it to be over.

There were so many things you wanted to do, people you wanted to meet, and achievements you never quite got around to.

But as the color fades and darkness takes over you will look at the old man one final time.

He will be fainter now, the wool of his sweater becoming translucent and the light in his eyes fading into a tiny sparkle.

“Until next year,” he will say.

Then, the clock will hit twelve, and he will be gone.

Gone as if he were never there, but not gone forever.