On New Year’s Eve I always take a moment to remember those who aren’t in my life now — for whatever reason. I don’t necessarily “tak a cup o kyndnes yet, fir ald lang syn,” but I do give pause and wonder if they do the same. I know some of those people are gone from this world, but of others I am not certain. They number friends, lovers, enemies, fixations, and fascinations. Some I knew a long time and others only enough for them to make an impression. Occasionally there was a conscious decision to part ways; more often than not it was not a nuked bridge but an abandoned one. Some people I don’t think I’d know if I ran into at the coffee house, and others I’d recognize from a half mile.
In my memory, they don’t age. Likewise, to some I’m an eighteen year old still in his graduation gown. Some might even deem me straight. But these people do change in my memory. Their phiscial flaws smooth out, and their foilbles strengthen. Their wit sharpens. They are somewhat smarter than they were. While they in no way obtain perfection, they become something better. I hope in theirs that I am closer to perfection as well.
So on this night, among the homemade oyster stew, the Brut, the caviar, and revelry, I think of those who have crossed both my door and my heart. Somewhere between 11:59 and Midnight I will incline my head in thoughts for the past, present, and the future. I will mouth a prayer for Peace and sing “For Auld Lang Syne” with the masses.
