Year of the dumpster, beached on the street like a malevolent whale. Year of the winking stop sign, of constantly yellow lights. 2019, year of the home run, of rain, of record heat, of polar vortex. Year of the tweetstorm. Of walls and rejections. Year of running water, of family, of learning another language, of learning how not to take things for granted. Year of choking to death on vomit in a hotel room, year of death of talent by suicide.
Year of unchecked mergers. Year of the podcast, of restaurants closing, of buildings that will be empty until they collapse. Year of body rags cut from old clothes, of rubbing alcohol, of witch hazel. Year of CBD. Of bird versus bunny, year of more and more mass shootings and no one doing anything about it.
Year of groggy mornings, of bags under my eyes, of sleeping by myself, of writing poems, of hiding. Year of swimming laps, of AirBnB, of appreciating a picnic table in the shade in the park. Year of compound interest, of Jupiter and Scorpius, of the opossum, of the narwhal tusk, of the whip-poor-will’s song. Year of playing tennis again with my brother. Year of cuñado, year of farmer’s markets. Year of next year, if I’m lucky, again.
Year of sedgegrass, of turtles crossing the road, of empty cabinet posts, of plastic in the ocean. Year of realizing we’re not recycling what we thought we were. Year of the plastic bag. Year of reusable bags, of perfect change, of stolen credit card information. Year of jaywalking, of walking while texting.
Year of the scooter, of fentanyl, of vaping, of the hazy IPA. Year of leafblower, of ear plugs, of white noise. Year of the perfect phone call. Year of Ukraine. Year of dodgy phone battery, of tossing cheap cigar pack wrappers on the ground, of vodka handle. Year of the chicken sandwich.
Year of the blood pressure cuff, repurposed year, year of single-serving hummus, year of the floss pick, of the collaborative playlist, of the fluorescent hat. Year of the year itself being declared a state of emergency. Year of protesting protests, of corrugated metal roofs, of horseradish, of sauvignon blanc, year of driving along a road I’ve never driven along before.
Year of listening to music while I sleep, year of pollen, of the carabiner, of rare earth magnets, year of stucco, year of losing my train of thought as I try to think of nothing else but counting to ten. Year of construction zone, of vocals ruining jazz songs. Year of Wingspan, of the jigsaw puzzle. Year of classical music still being as good as any. Year of wondering if there’s another Rachmaninoff trapped and silenced somewhere in the middle of Russia right now.
Year of Andrew Luck. Year of The Taste. Year of self-doubt, year of CostCo, year of hot pepper suet cake. Year of the copperhead, of the mud dauber, of invasive cedar, of Karmack. Year of the brush pile, of the spoiler alert, of the Goodwill donation, of the no-meat burger. Year of mason jar.
Year of Curtis Flowers! Year of the lightweight metal cup. Year of yoga and essential oils. Year of tractor. Year of split wood. Year of contrails. Year of wanting to find a way to make every year the year of the year. Or last year, or yesteryear, or what the heck—
Year of Happy New Year.
The Writing of John B. Randall 