I am ringing in the New Year alone.
I just finished reading Andrea Gibson’s The Panic Button Collector for the 429 091 123th time.
I am burning scented candles, and the air smells like caramel.
I am sitting within arm’s reach of the six plants I have managed to keep alive for the past 2 seasons.
My curly red ‘fro is tickling my forehead.
I am wrapped in a blanket and drinking a cup of warm peppermint tea.
I am building a home for these words that I have held onto for so long.
In the next room, my mother snores, and I can hear the rustling of my dad and brother.
So actually, no. I am not ringing in the New Year alone.