BY HALLIE DONG (staff writer)
here,
in America,
fireworks shoot up
up
up
into skies,
making night bright as day
in the apartment window
of a college student—
she holds her glass to the moon
and toasts for health,
for happiness, for good grades.
she drinks,
contents sparkling down her throat.
she feels new,
she feels old,
she feels everything in-between.
in Spain,
an old man counts
twelve grapes,
eats them to the gongs
of the church bells
at midnight
onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineteneleventwelve
once upon a time
he was told they would bring him
wealth,
fortune,
success,
but he does it now just to remember
what it was like
to hope
in Colombia,
a young mother carries her
daughter in her arms,
running through the streets
with empty suitcases in hand.
once upon a time, they’d
wish for a travel-filled year,
but now they can feel
the emptiness within
the suitcases more than
ever, their leadweight
heavier than full ones.
Denmark starts it with a
CRASH
and a
BANG,
china plates smashed to pieces
on doorsteps of loved ones.
it feels backwards—
it always has—
but sometimes a backwards beginning is just
what you need for a forwards ending,
propelling you to the next
beginning.
dear
2021,
you were not good,
nor bad,
nor shimmery, nor gooey, nor vivid,
because years don’t hold denotations
we do.
2021,
your job was to lay the path before us,
carve the way between us,
but we walk through the door,
one foot in front of the other,
paving our way to the future.
2021,
these stories of people
around the world
who celebrate you
in ways vastly different
yet still remain true—
we remain united
because of you.
because you—
the passing of time,
the celebration of the old,
the coming of the new,
the gathering of loved ones—
you create culture.
2021,
thank you.
and in a world
where it gets harder
and harder to become starry-eyed,
to appreciate differences
without labeling them abnormalities—
we welcome you.
2022.
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