For days of Auld Lang Syne

Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and old lang syne?

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The New York I flew into Friday night was chilled with snow and ice. The Empire State building, perhaps out of consideration for those of us traveling during Christmas, still beamed festive red and green lights. My breathe puffed white on the cab ride home, while the city lay still and breathless from New Year’s revelry. I had made peace with the fact that this New Year’s was, in almost every way, unremarkable. I watched the ball drop from my grandparents’ California home and made silent wishes that my friends in Time Square were safe and smooching.  I made no great New Year’s resolutions, donned no sparkly attire, and reflected very little upon the triumphs and losses of 2013. In short, the holiday seemed oddly vacant this year.

As I unpacked my bags and began making space in the closet, a heavy sweater tumbled from its shelf. It was the sweater that Mark, my first love, gave to me nine Christmases ago.  Thickly woven wool, and beautiful blend of earthy brown and beige, the sweater was timelessly elegant. Mark was so proud to have selected an article of women’s clothing correctly and smiled every time I wore it. Once, when we were in a relationship stalemate, somewhere between breaking and making up (this was college, after all) Mark spotted me in the library. It had been six silent months of standoff when he forged a powerfully simple truce: “That’s a really nice sweater. Whoever gave it to you must have great taste. And I like your hair…its longer, like it was two years ago.” The third time Mark and I broke up was for good.  We had exhausted all attempts and yet, both of us ached with the finality of it. I grieved not only the loss of a boyfriend, but of his family, with whom I had intricately woven myself.  And so it was his family, Mark’s mother in particular, who imparted upon some riddle of a blessing: “Maggi, I know you can’t bear to leave this relationship, but you must. You don’t have to part with it forever. Just imagine placing it in a drawer, a drawer you cannot open for a while. It is safe there and when the right amount of time has passed you can look at it again. But put it away for now, dear.”  It was the most foul-tasting dose of medicine anyone has ever given me. Put him away? Was he an article of clothing that could be so easily stored on a shelf?

Taking down the woolen sweater always brought memories of Mark back, but after so many years and so many loves, the memories no longer stung, but kept me snuggly swaddled in the present. It was, objectively, the perfect sweater. However, now as I gazed upon the fallen garment, it looked unusually small, maybe even… shrunken.  Frantically I threw it over my head, wishing to dispel the fear that I might have actually committed the worst laundry faux pas in history!  But there is no arguing a choked neck and bare midriff.  It was time to say goodbye, not to Mark anymore, but to the hefty sweater that had since preserved me in four East Coast winters with a thick and burley comfort that felt like hugging Sean Connery, or so I imagine.  Throwing it away without some parting words felt wrong and so I texted Mark: “I shrunk the beautiful beige sweater and I’m very upset because it would have lasted forever on its own. I just wanted you to know I got many years of good use out of it. Thank you.”  It wasn’t the first time we spoke in six years. Mark and I speak periodically and I know that he is happily married and successfully developing educational programs from the Bay area.  When we catch up it is always with distinct fondness, a friendly affection that is a miracle onto itself.

It was 1:30 in the morning EST and because I was still in PAC time, I could not sleep, but tossed and turned for hours.  I was awake when Mark replied: He was terribly sorry to hear of the loss, but gladdened that I had so many happy years with the sweater. It was so sweet of me to tell him. And how was teaching? What was my brother (Billy) up to? Did I remember the Christmas present he had given to Billy that same year… the running shorts with the underwear built in?  The way Billy literally scratched off the wrapping paper, with one hand, as if he didn’t care at all?  “The slow unwrap,” we had termed it. The image made me cry with laughter.

I am generally not a huge fan of texting for the all the ways in which it fails to capture tone, intention, and depth in a conversation. But with Mark, in a rapid-fire exchange that lasted hours into the night, I heard everything with instantaneous clarity. Everything had changed between us and yet the familiarity remained, untarnished.  In three words he could recall entire comedic episodes with unfailing nuance. My belly ached and my pillow was wet with laughing tears.  I could have, quite possibly, purged myself of a years-worth of disappointment or sadness or muck during that conversation. It did not feel like an ordinary night in the slow plod of metered time, but one of sudden revival.  And though “seas between us broad have roared” all that remained now was love for auld lang syne.

And so the blessings of New Year’s came upon me unexpected, not in a sparkling daze of confetti, but in an old acquaintance, who bid me midnight laughter and words of kindness. In the silence that followed I hummed the old Scottish lullaby, understanding New Year’s Eve perhaps for the first time.  You cannot fabricate healing or forgiveness on your own terms. And the turning of the calendar year does not automatically mean that everything will be different or cleared of last year’s debris.  Every holiday represents an ideal that we aspire to, but can never completely engineer ourselves. But every now and then, a sweater will tumble out of place, the drawer magically opens, and there is cause for celebration. For what was once an unthinkable prophecy has come to pass: the people and things that bring our life meaning are never finally lost, just kept safe for another time, a time when all things are made new.