At the stroke of midnight last night, New Year’s Eve, I was bedeckt in black tie finery, crowded around an upright piano. Richard Anderson, Delta’s CEO, was honoring me and my former coworkers by arranging for Sir Elton John to perform for us at the prom. Unfortunately for me, I was gravely ill and couldn’t properly sing my part, to the chagrin of all involved.

There begins and ends my NYE excitement, brought to you by one snappy subconscious already in a deep, sleep induced coma. In reality, the night was quite quiet for Eric and me. We pulled in to a deserted parking lot along a modest, roadside waterfall and set up camp. (Setting up camp=parking, naturally.) We cracked open a couple bottles of local brews, played a few rounds of cards, and scratched some lottery tickets that Eric thoughtfully surprised me with, thus cementing our first and only holiday tradition.

I’d love to say that afterwards we lay back on a picnic table, holding hands, recounting the best year of our lives while picking out late night constellations, but the truth: I can only find a dipper and a measly belt. Also: I was out cold before the sun could properly set.

There were no corks being popped in our van, nor any cheap, plastic fedoras covered in glitter on either one of our heads. I let my exhausted limbs lie after a solid morning hike, my love beside me planning our next driving route and doing more mysterious battery calculations.

His face was the first sight of my 2016 at 5:30 this morning; his feet, the second, as I slipped outside for a moment. It was his bare back shortly after some swallows of fresh air, as I slipped back under the covers for a warm spoon. And so, life carries on into the new year. Nothing seems to be too markedly different, nor do I desire it to be, for I suspect we’re already on a course that doesn’t require many goals, resolutions, or piano accompaniments from aging, British pop stars.

-K

^ One of the several beautiful views our NYE hike led us to.