I had the highest hopes, as did we all, for this year. It started with promise, with a houseful of friends over for a black-eyed peas and cornbread dinner I hosted on New Year’s Day, 2006. The humble, earthy flavor of the peas remind us of prosperity through humility.
Springtime brought me a few brief amorous moments; winter thaw, spring hopes, nothing took root, but I didn’t mind. My dry season was over.
July, things went south. I got ill, spent all my time at home alone. One of the hottest, driest summers on record, and my life went cold. When the animal is sick, he seperates himself from the herd to heal. And I healed, physically.
The latter half of 2006 found me on my own, alone. Sure, I’m as much to blame, but there is no motion without desire, no comeradery without kinship, no confiding without confidence. So much I want to say, so much I carry, no one will hear of it. It’s my own weight to bear.
And now I am fully humbled — or humiliated by the demons of my own making — and my prosperity still is not forthcoming.
So on the end of 2006 and the eve of 2007, I stare at my screen, typing the same damned words everyone else says on each new year: may 2007 bring me health, prosperity, and kinship.