Inventory for the Last Day of the Year


Alfred Eisenstaedt | Seattle Cedar Lumber Manufacturing, 1939

Some mornings
I take inventory
of everybody I love.
Do you ever do this?
One early bird in the living room
eating Goldfish for breakfast.
One night owl in her room,
don’t dare wake her up.
One ocean girl bundled up
against the bitter cold.
One mother drinking hot tea
at her kitchen table.
One father in a bathrobe
reading the New York Times.
One dancing boy standing
tall at Masada.
One sweet sixteen soaking
at a seaside spa.
One sister sleeping off
a Breaking Bad marathon.
One faraway friend lacing up
for the long run.
One who is grieving her sister,
one who is missing her marriage,
one who is covering her face
with glitter and paint.
One who is wearing a rifle
across her chest.
One who is resting in a hospital
chair after a scary night.
One who is glad to see the sun
rise again.
One who thought the night
was her best friend.
One who needs a haircut
and one who needs a change,
one who changed so much
I don’t even remember
her name.
One who ran with wild horses.
One who read compasses
like books.
One who longed for legs
to tangle and one who wrote
poems instead.
One who came only in a dream
and one who looked
at me and said good morning,
that was just a dream.
One who promised milk and honey.
One who broke the law
and the law won.
One who exceeded all expectation
and one who healed
her own body
through meditation.
One who made it all this way
to the very last day
of the rough housing year
and wrapped a prayer shawl
around her shoulders
because she survived.
One who pried open the locks
to the heart door.
One who left and one who stayed.
One who imagined
everything until she could trace
the patterns in the stars.
One who was careful
with her accounting of names
throwing them all to the sky
before beginning again.


Ten minutes a day is all it takes. Write with me in 2015.

2 thoughts on “Inventory for the Last Day of the Year

  1. writer553 says:

    “Because she survived… ”

    No better mantra for the shiny new year.

    If we were in my hometown of Glasgow, Jena, we would go out first-footin’ together (whatever door you appear at must welcome you in) and at midnight we’d listen for the bells at the downtown square ringing in the new year.

    Happy Hogmanay, dear lassie. xox tricia



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