To Eliot it was April – for me it’s December.

There was always something about this month that made me feel hopelessly nostalgic – even when I was too young to have anything to feel nostalgic about. (I blame romantic Christmas comedies. Maybe I even blame the Christmas season altogether, with its cosy fireplaces, merry gatherings and all the magic they want you to buy.)

Regardless of family reunions and packed shopping centres, December has always seemed to be terribly lonely. It’s the last in the queue. It’s the darkest. It is the cold and big reminder of all the resolutions we never keep – and the countdown to a brand new year, full of promise and potential – and yet another to-do-list that will be forgotten about.

On my personal calendar, however, there is no other month with as many circles or crosses to mark the date. Most of them birthdays and anniversaries that should be happy and jolly occasions but that time – and life – took care of turning into, at best, melancholic days.

My dates of loss are spread around other, scattered months. What makes my December cruel is that it gave birth to most of the warmth I now have to live without.

But it brings back the light everytime before it leaves.

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