Heading into January loaded up with memory,

coming out of 2020, the worst year,

holding onto yesterday,

tomorrow still unclear.

Heading into January, the first month of the new year,

this endless, playing loop of memory and burden of grief still all too clear. 

I was angry before and now feel lost.

I have paid the price and only now have I started ro.count the cost.

Heading into January, dark and dreary,

heading into January, deep seeded grief and misery.

I see January coming across a canvas of the widest sky and I already know what will be painted there.

These days are so long and the nights never really seem to end. 

(I wonder when this act ends? Haven’t we been listening long enough?)

In January I see angels and God and then there are the devils who are much to silent in their presence. 

(When.does this begin to make sense?)

I remember the days in April and May and then the rain that set in on Sunday afternoon and the sadness that grew – I remembered the hawk sitting on the sign post at the end of the road – that day began so sunny. 

Then, later on, nostalgia set in and took over my thoughts, held my hand and brought me back to better days and times. 

(Now comes January with its windy days and floods of memories, dragging me.along this convoluted timeline and coming no closer to resolution.) 

The grief, becoming almost sqcramental, remaining a sacrificial reality, offering its invisible with of a very real reality. 

(Heading into January) 

I think of that empty house, so full for so many years, now sitting empty in the fading, almost non – existant light of winter, soon it will be sold and all our memories with it. 

(God willing I can remember enough of them to write them down and then tape them to.my pillow so they are close to my mind while I sleep, close to my mind especially when it begins to the wander.) 

Heading into January,

I can’t remember all of it, only what I have been able to.piece together from.dreams and what has been passed on to me by those who were there. 

I believe he was peaceful on that January day when it all ended, when it all finally ended, when it was over, all that was left sought resolution, nothing ventured, nothing gained, out there beyond the pale and up against the wall. 

In January the reality of life and death comes up close and personal and submits to emotional trade offs that resemble some attempt at cosmic bargaining,

and,

the lights, even though they stay on all night, have never seemed as dim and pointless as they do during this dark time. 

(who am I now?)

Anne that anxiety tries to.dent the shiny container of faith you have come to rely on, the hard lesson here is acceptance and of making sense of how nothing added up and how you were to.close ro.truly understand what was happening and how I blew my chance to help.

(God remains and when I cry he still is and was and always will be.)

In January there are no.answers, pounding days of boredom and a million questiins. 

Deary is real and close and all you want is far, far away, close to ash filled urns that no longer contain his essence but rather an earthly reminder of the past all the while pointing to a heavenly promise. 

So, are the lessons still not learned?

Wow there something I have missed and not comprehended?

All I see is sadness and longing and constant looking. 

(I am the healer of the broken, he is the risen son of man, and when I cry he hears me…)

There is no resolution in January.

There is no guidance in January.

There is no sun in January.

There is only faith in January.

(January too shall pass.) 

T.S. Deary