Tracing December

Aditya Kumar Gupta-FYBSC

Tracing December

It doesn’t start with tinsel.

It starts with the email inbox

Slowing down, like a massive tide

Finally beginning to retreat.

You notice the sun hitting the office wall

At an impossible, low angle.

It’s already gone by 4:30.

You are negotiating with the dark.

This is the month for Inventory.

Not just of the gifts we still need to buy,

But the debts we owe ourselves:

The novel we started, abandoned on page twenty.

The conversation we kept meaning to have.

The exhaustion we’ve been banking since June.

We drag out the old boxes.

The ornaments feel heavy this year,

Each one a tiny weighted memory.

This star from Grandma. This chipped ceramic Santa.

We don’t put them up; we just look at them for a minute,

Holding the heat of a forgotten December in our palms.

And the togetherness?

It’s not perfect, magazine-ready.

It’s crowded kitchens, too many people trying to plug in chargers,

The silence after a politically charged comment,

The intense, whispered gratitude

When someone hands you a hot cup of tea

And just sees that you’re tired.

It’s the sheer effort of being warm,

And sometimes, the relief of finally being alone.

The pause is a forced moment,

Like a machine needing maintenance.

We stop running because the engine is sputtering,

Not because we decided to sit still.

We stare at the flickering lights,

And it’s not spiritual, maybe,

Just the simple, blank wonder of light

In all this pervasive shadow.

It’s messy. It’s expensive. It’s slightly too loud.

It’s watching the old year crumble into dust,

And realizing that all the hope for the new one

Is just standing here, in this moment,

Waiting for us to finally exhale.