January Tenth
Another year begins. A year of dread, fear, melt-down, violence and war. Maybe--am I being foolish?--a year of hope? I keep telling the writers I work with that this will be a good year because we choose to make it a good year.

I dread this day: 32 years ago today, my father died in wicked border Mexico. I look out at the relentless snow. My daughter's expedition to dntn Chicago thwarted: tears. All the sorrows and delights of a normal life. Part of me rebels: this is bullshit! And part of me wants to kneel and pray--this is a normal life. How did I get here? I go out and shovel as much as I can with my rusted back. I read 100 books. I wear sweatpants all day. I do push-ups. It feels...it feels...like grace.

Lately, we have been enjoying Smith magazine's six-word memoirs. A bunch of my friends are writing them. I wrote: Father killed: forced to grow up. But then I realized that might be true, but it's all in how you take life. So I wrote this instead: Suffered early: chose to live joyously.

Let us make this a good year. It starts, after all, with us.

I hope.

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