2013, I have nothing to say to you. When we reminisce about the good years, your name will not be called. Begone.
Your pictures will lurk under the others’, your corners forever warring for territory on the sticky page. When you begin to damage your opponents, we will call a halt to the hostilities. We will resettle you elsewhere, in an undisputed box.
You tried to kill us. You burned us, drowned us, sickened us, shot us — what is it with years and guns lately? — and you sent your winds to sweep us away. Keep sweeping as you go; your mess awaits our care.
Pieces of you are missing. We buried them with our families and friends. You leave without your full complement of passengers; I deem you a poor conveyance.
Your governance, you stole from your predecessors’ store of jokes. Here, take it back. It is what we asked for; it was not what we wanted.
Return to your father’s house, little year, imprecise assassin, careless keeper. Sit at the feet of your elders. Ask them, Could I have done better, given what came before?
Perhaps they can find some comfort for you. I cannot; what I might have shared with you, you have taken.
Begone, year. Welcome, year.
Originally published at Stephanie Leary. You can comment here or there.