Air

"Whelp, it's the 22nd of December, huh," I say.

"Yep," Jane nods, the two of us planted on a stool and a five gallon bucket, kitchen island under our elbows.

"Wow," I say. "What a hard year."

"Yeah," she says.

"Huh." We stare across the long swath of kitchen now finished, almost. A camaraderie of burdens shared, we watch, detached fascination between us. Lucy and Myra pour flour into the breadmaker. Strains of Peace on earth, good will toward men waft up the stairs. Twenty seventeen unfurls like a sigh dissipating, leaving us pulling for the fresh air of a new year to our lungs.

"But," Jane says, "we can stand to meet 2018."

"Yep," I say. "Huh."

And so it is. We stand.

May the love of Christ carry you like an ark through the waters of this new year.