On our way home from the 12⁄31 -> 1⁄1 festivities last night — K driving, because I’d had more than just a taste of my brother-in-law’s brandy slush — we passed a road blanketed in soft new snow, with just one solitary set of tracks down its centre. It struck me as the most perfect metaphor for a new year: a trail undiscovered, waiting. In three hundred sixty-odd days it’ll be deeply rutted, heavily traveled, alive only in memory. But right now it’s full of untapped potential.
I wanted to ask K to stop the car so I could take a picture. But it was 2:30 in the morning, so I didn’t, and now I feel a kind of gentle regret. So here’s a hundred or so words to try and take the place of a photo.