The last few days of January seem to be such a misery. It is bitterly cold, annoyingly wet and depressingly dark outside.
Another birthday has passed by my window. After the excitement of birthday presents burned out like candles on a birthday cake, a plus-one in my age is all that was left behind.
Consciously I retraced my twenty-eight’s footsteps. What have I done that are worth counting for the never-to-return time? There were a few.
I came home, and got myself an exciting job. I was absorbed.
I was there to hold my nephew when he was a few hour old. I felt my family’s hope rising in his cries. Like most babies, he cried quite a bit. We did not even mind that much.
For the first time in 10 years, I was in the same city with my best friend for a period longer than a holiday. We went to have junk food talking about our life battles. We were not drama queens. We just sought differences in life. We went clothes shopping giggling like teenagers again. We visited places.
But I could have seen her more often. I could have visited more old friends with whom I had lost regular contact for three years or more. Many of them have kids now. I didn’t go to see the little ones either. Sadly, there seemed to be a lot that I didn’t do. And the time has passed.
When regrets conquer, vulnerability creeps in. Outside, it is still dark, wet and cold. Yet the worst is to come in February. At the end of each day, I hurriedly tug my feet under a thick blanket, wait patiently. I still work, run, crochet, cook, learn and love. But I am desperately long for spring to come.