Last of the Year

i still remember,
the last of December.

milky ribbons of snow glistening on the trees still,
like powdered sugar sifted atop the backyard hill.
where footprints traced the path of young explorers,
snow angels and snow people frozen into one,
sleds and baby shovels strewn in the corner, forgotten
for the warmth of the foyer.

paper snowflakes lined,
every window, every room, and danced their way
to where the Christmas tree shined.
took the shape of sugar cookies smothered in frosting, crumbs
in the in betweens of little fingers—in reds, greens, yellows, purples,
but never the blues.

the radio tuned to perennial melodies,
waltzed through the rooms in holiday serenity.
laughter scurried up the cupboards, squeezed under the cracks and
in the wallpapers. seeped through the carpet and bounced off the mirrors,
wrapped around me and you and us.

the last breath of a dying year slips through a sleeping suburb,
and we are here once again. woven
within this house we’ve made home.

this time there’s green on the lawn,
there’s dust on the sleds, and the cookies come labeled
two for the price of one.
the carpet gets heavier, and time it drips on.

and in these walls it rolls down,
the radio keeps singing. the mirrors beam back
still lopsided grown grins. the carpet and i,
we will always recall, the little feet that ran through us—
the dancing, the laughing, how we caught all their falls. we’ll reminisce
with a smile, all sticky-stuck together.

each year the wind changes,
a different exhale than before,

but i’ll always remember,
the last of December.

By Priyanka Shrestha