On the last day of the year, from tomorrow

I wake up in my apartment on the last day of the year.
The bed is soft but not too soft, the blankets thick but not too thick.
It is 9, then 10, then 12:30, and I think I must get up now.
The warmth nurtured all night by my body and the bed is slowly dissipating with the day, and there are little things calling for me.

I shiver before sitting up, stretching my neck slowly to coax it out of sleep; I must have been still too long in one position.
My eyes are tired; I push and knead my fingers into different parts of my face to gently loosen the muscles. I go lean and long like a bunny in a yawn.
I rub my stiff shoulders warm with my palms.

Cold air greets me through the glass as I work myself toward getting up. My bed—being pressed up against the wall with windows—receives the daily weather immediately.

The flag across the street is waving in the wind but I don’t hear a howl. I guess it won’t be such a bad day.

My apartment is so quiet and I love this soft, soundless sound with every inch of my body, even if some mornings I wake up in a rush or am too busy to notice. Even if some mornings the fire alarm goes off before my wake-up time, or I hear the bunnies squabbling in the other room and have to give them stern words and loving pats before padding back into bed to catch a snooze.

None of that today. The apartment is quiet; the wind is not howling; I am 34 and have just woken up on the last day of the year.

I swing myself out of bed and head to the washroom. Brush my teeth. Wash my face. I fold over, head to my knees, letting the blood rush upward, letting the vertebrae decompress like the smallest unlocking — click, click, click. Two minutes at least. Longer if I am really not in a hurry.

The water warms my hands while my legs hold a small shiver. I loosen more muscles in front of the mirror: eyebrows, eyes, cheeks, jaw, neck. Everything feels tight today and a headache suggests itself. It will let itself in later.

My bangs have grown out nicely these days and they fall just the way I want it: bedhead but refined, unkempt with composure. My face feels less swollen. All my morning labour has received its reward.

I get dressed, put on a soup to boil, do last night’s dishes and plot out the rest of the day. There are some urgent matters, like errands and cleaning, and there are small desires, like a good matcha latte.

Both things will be addressed eventually. I already know where I will go.

I crack my toes and rotate my ankles while eating lunch. The phone pings a flurry of notifications. For my family, the new year has already begun. Some fireworks. Some all-capped well wishes. A selfie or two. I thumb replies. Love traveling the speed of satellite and ocean cables.

Back here in the past, my day is about to enter its middle arc where time must change pace and I will have to put on my socks and boots and hat and gloves and go out into the swirl of it all, but for now, I breathe into the soft soundless sound of my home. I quietly empty the dishwasher and put the cups back into their place. I think about how wondrous a morning this is, for the last day of the year. I offer something less stiff than gratitude, something more dense than thanks.