2014 came in much the same way 2013 did. Platitudes. Promises. Pleadings for a second (or seventh or eleventh or twentieth) chance. After an unexpected and successfully warm Christmas, things were going to be different. “This year,” they implored, “things are going to be different than they have been before!”
But a mere four days into the new year, that fragile, cautious reunification of a splintered family and of a renewed belief that, finally, after five years of hell, things were finally going to normalize, went up in a cloud of acrid, suffocating smoke. I would like to say that I’m shocked, but I’m not. I’d love to say that I’m disappointed, but I’m numb. I wish I could say that I, too, believed that the winds of change were blowing in a new direction, but years and years of half-truths and out-and-out lies have conditioned me not to fall for any word of it, no matter how heartfelt it was uttered. I knew it would happen. I knew things would go back to the way they were, and this is one time that I hate to have been proven to be correct.
Happy New Year?