It's the last Wednesday night before Christmas 2021.
Usually, during this past year, I'd be on a Zoom call on a Wednesday night. My friend Anna, who runs the adult programs at my local library, has been hosting a weekly "Photo Journaling Club." We're on holiday break now, but the usual Wednesday night has been like this: A handful of us share photos, and then we follow a prompt from my friend Janet, who is a real writer, and write extemporaneously about our photos based on her prompt.
I have a great time, because I never know for sure what photos I'll show, and I don't know what I'll write until the time comes to share. It's magic that, in the end, it always seems to work out just fine.
Early this year, I shared the image on top of this page from New Year's morning 2021, when my wife Nancy and I watched the sun rise over New York City from Weehawken (right next to the Hamilton dueling grounds).
Janet had asked us to show a photo that suggested a metaphor. I wrote that the sunrise was a crown on the New York City skyline.
Janet said that, to her, the clouds looked like a chorus line of Rockettes.
Now, as 2021 limps to its finish line, with the real Rockettes having shut down for the remainder of the year, I wonder where Nancy and I might best watch the sun rise on New Year's morning 2022.
I long for some certainty next year in real life. But, I know, real life is not like writing, and everything doesn't always work out just fine.
Real life is a roulette wheel; each passing sunrise is another sucker's bet.