Not the Snow, But the Hollow Space Between Bells #poetry

I
was never told to choose a favorite.
Children in half-cooked sweaters gawked over sparkles and Santa,
while I stirred the abyss in teacups, watching the milk spread like loss.

My mother said, every holiday is the echo of absence,
and I, the ever-stubborn linguist of silence,
chose none.
No cardboard cupids,
no firework cacophonies where dogs tremble like heartbeats in divorce court.

But then there was Diwali.
No—wait. That was a lie I believed in for three years
just because someone said lights make people happy.

Truth?

It was always the end of the year
that snuck under my ribs like a sly fox,
leaving frost on my spine and forgiveness in my coat pockets.
I mean
New Year’s Eve.

I like the part where the world goes quiet for four seconds
after pretending to be a concert.

I like the countdown. The lie of optimism.
The synchronized deceit.
The collective hallucination that time resets itself
with one exhale of confetti and bad champagne.

I like how people promise to be better.
Promise to finally sleep right,
to love people they don’t know how to touch,
to give up things that will strangle them in June
but not in January.

Yes, New Year’s is my favorite
because it is not real.
Because it doesn’t demand gifts or flags or mothers.
Because it is secular and sacred and useless.
Because even grief pauses for a cigarette break at midnight.

No idols to pretend to believe in.
No war to commemorate.
No body to dig up and parade.
Only forward.

Only forward,
even when backward taps my shoulder and says,
“Remember when you kissed him in the kitchen and thought love was forever?”

Yes.
I remember.
But the calendar told me to forget.

The truth is
the holiday is the moment between the minutes.
It is the breath you take
when everyone else is clapping.

It is the walk home
when your feet are soaked
and you’re not sure if it’s rain or guilt or bourbon.

It is the small laugh
you let out
when someone says “Happy New Year”
and you don’t know if they mean it
or if they’re just afraid of silence.

Sometimes
I light a candle
at 11:58 p.m. and blow it out at 12:01.
Nothing ceremonial.
Just the quiet war of endings.

One year, I bought myself a globe.
Spun it.
Closed my eyes.
Let my finger land where my heart couldn't.
It landed in the ocean.

Of course.

Even the earth didn’t know where to put me.

Every New Year I write a list.
Not resolutions.
Resignations.

“I resign from needing to be chosen.”

“I resign from making room for those who never arrive.”

“I resign from fearing the good things.”

Sometimes I burn the paper.
Sometimes I hide it in books
I never plan to reread.

There was a year
I stood on a rooftop alone.
Everyone was kissing.
I kissed the air.
It tasted like departure.

But that is why I love it.

That stark emotional nudity
you must face when the clock betrays you.

Because even if you're surrounded by people—
with glasses raised and fireworks screeching like ancient birds—
you are still
you.

And the new year does not care.

It is a seasonless transition.
A ritual without choreography.

Even the word “holiday”
feels too crisp for it.
Like saying “goodbye” to someone
you will see again in five minutes.

Do you understand what I mean?
No, not yet.
That’s the thing with words—
they are commas, not conclusions.

But now I turn toward you.
Yes, you.

You,
reader of this rambling liturgy.

You with the fog in your eyes
and the echo of your own version of midnight.

What is your favorite holiday?

I ask not to be polite,
but because your answer is a door.

Is it Eid, with its feasts and forgiveness and family dusted in sugar?

Is it Holi, when people forget who hurt them and throw color instead?

Is it Christmas,
not for the birth of gods but the way strangers smile in checkout lines?

Is it a made-up one—
the Tuesday in March when you met her,
the Thursday you left?

Tell me.

Tell me what lit your sky and didn’t burn your fingers.
Tell me when time felt kind.
When calendars didn’t feel like cages.
When you danced with the hour
instead of watching it devour you.

Tell me what made you stay.
What gave you
reason
not to end.

I told you mine.
Now,
dear you—
what’s yours?

#Poetry #NewYearsEve #FavoriteHoliday #TimeAndMemory #SpokenSilence