It’s January and I wake up from under crumpled bed sheets, still holding hands with the only person I think I know for certain. I am bleary-eyed from dreams of new years and new yous or whatever. 

It’s February and I get everything I’ve been holding my breath for, except everything stays exactly the same. I’m telling myself not to celebrate too much, so I can focus on the next thing. Then I’m telling myself I should probably celebrate a little, so I can focus on the next thing. Hubert’s saying something about how the lowest lows in his life follow the highest highs. I’m not really listening.

It’s March and things are quiet. For my birthday, I wish I could put off this birthday for a few more hours or maybe a few more years, so that I can get to where I thought I’d be before I turn 24. Instead, I get three different birthday cakes on the same day.

It’s April and I put on a mask, a scarf, and gloves each time I visit the grocery store. At first, I am donning knight’s armor or spy’s gear, living my dreams of being a protagonist in an apocalyptic film. Later, I am putting on a mask, a scarf, and gloves each time I visit the grocery store. 

It’s May and I read somewhere that if you make enough muffins, cookies, dumplings, lasagna, and shakshuka, you can stop a broken heart from melting into your toes and through the floorboards. I try this and confirm that it does not work, so I stop and call my mom for help instead. My mom calls my dad to call me to help. My dad calls my brother to call me to help. Everybody helps.

It’s June and I’m trading out my scarf and gloves for acceptance that I will be wearing a mask to the grocery store for much longer than I anticipated. At night, Yuna and I get ice cream before climbing onto the beach lifeguard chair to watch the sea darken after dusk. Someone across the bay is setting off fireworks each night. First, they say it is in protest of the police. Then, they say it is rowdy teenagers. I try to think that maybe someone, somewhere, is always celebrating.

It’s July and as I am unpacking from an unrelenting pile of boxes, I finally water the plant that is on its last few crispy, brown leaves. I place it by a new window and water it every time the soil feels slightly dry. In a couple of weeks, it grows back every single leaf, greener and larger than before. Nate has no idea what is about to happen.

It’s August and I may have gotten carried away. On Saturday, I find myself in plant shops in parts of Boston I’ve never been to. On Sunday, I mix my own soil and repot my plants. On Wednesday, a new leaf unfurls under my care. I didn’t realize I had been harboring a void of disinterest until it was filled to the brim with tropical plants. Nate is concerned because there is now a plant that lives in our shower. I am relieved that I am learning something new. On Friday, Nate and I go out for ice cream and I lecture him on the injustices within the rare plant trade.

It’s September and I go for a walk with someone who thinks about textiles and sustainability and footwear and materials and plants as much as I do. We spend almost two hours in the adidas Concepts store, touching every single design on the shelves until the store closes. I come back home and feel strangely empty, wishing I could tell someone about the very good day I just had. Bilan’s on a date so she doesn’t pick up the phone. I’ll keep this one to myself.

It’s October and we have to stay late in the office again. Kal orders the pizza and Carlos tells the stories. On Saturday, I sit on a bench next to the Charles, sketching the river shoreline. Talia points out the ivy-covered facade of her favorite apartment in Cambridge. The leaves are the most striking shade of yellow. On Sunday, Rachel and Kevin bring out seasonal beer flights and squid-ink pasta and seared scallops. This is family; these are friends. Bilan calls me to tell me about her day.

It’s November and I am panicking that the plants won’t survive the six weeks I’ll be away from Boston. I distract myself and go on a walk with a stranger. The walk leads to another walk and the stranger’s name is Jeff. He knits his eyebrows when he’s focusing on a thought and texts with an appropriate number of exclamation points. I make a mental note that I feel steady beside him. 

It’s Thanksgiving and the entire family sits around the dinner table for the first time in a long time and the last time for a long time. We’re too hungry and eat too quickly to make conversation. 

It’s December and I am smiling. My dad’s in the kitchen, making my mom laugh. He just spent fifteen minutes looking for the pair of glasses he was wearing on his head. Nate sends me photos of all of the plants– they are doing just fine without me in Boston. 

It’s 2020 and I honestly didn’t think I’d come out of this year on top. I look down and see everyone who holds the ladder steady. Thanks.