I ate a pomegranate on New Year’s Eve and in the morning my lips were stained the colour of rubies. My hair smelled of smoke from the fireworks we watched being launched off the Harbour Bridge. There were grassblades in the bottom of my bag from sitting on the ground. My fingernails were stained silver from lighting a hundred sparklers for excited children. Even in the afternoon of the next day I could still smell the strawberry-scented bubble mixture the children had used to make hundreds of tiny bubbles float upwards, glimmering and twirling in the orange and mauve evening light, pausing before they disappeared as if farewelling the remaining moments of the year they had been born in.
I love New Year’s Eve. I hate New Year’s Eve. It’s like looking through an old photograph album and growing misty-eyed over the way things have changed. Or the way they haven’t. Never does the shifting of the second hand hold such power. At one moment it is an old year, the next it is a new one. It’s exciting, confronting, joyful, sorrowful, fleeting and infinite all at the same time.
I don’t like making resolutions any more. It’s like standing in front of the mirror and picking to pieces everything you see, then making plans to change it. I can’t live up to that kind of scrutiny. So all I plan to do is work hard, laugh more, appreciate the people I love and do the best I can. I can do those things. I can keep them alive.