January starts with color and glitter. She is the millimeter of space between entwined couples as they kiss in festive celebration. She is the biting frost on their ears and the warm rush of exhilaration as they bump noses and teeth, as the crowds screams “HAPPY NEW YEAR!” January is the smell of rum and whisky mingled on the tongues of the non-lovers. The ones that smile awkwardly at the blossoms of love bursting around them. January is the aftertaste of burnt chocolate and sour cream when the meek rays of sun shine upon remnants of last night’s dinner on pavements. January begins all beginnings. January foreshadows the end.
Welcome to February in Southeast Asia. We step into an entirely different dimension altogether. Warm winds are symbols of blessings as Chinese families gather around tables for reunion. We begin by toasting each other with prosperity and good health. As the night wears on, we joust each other for the best bits of abalone and the gossip turns vicious as we smirk cruelly across the table. In next-door Malaysia, the Hindus are piercing skin and flesh with rods and various metals. They parade through the streets, living vessels of faith and conviction as tourists and people shiver in half-marvel and half-revulsion.
March is a delicate child with pale skin and soft blush eyes. Despite popular speculation, she is not an albino. In Japan, Sakura blossoms are stitching themselves together, forming blankets on streets. The children shriek in disbelief as they stick out their wriggly warm tongues to taste peals of pink the way some Catholics receive communion. March is blushing so hard strawberry fields are blossoming on her cheeks. On the rim of the Pacific bowl, they are crucifying Jesus again again again. The blood of human men runs red down sweaty brown backs as the crucifix makes it way through the streets.
April is the smell of citrus as we tear fibrous skin to reach juicy orbs of flesh. The sun is getting stronger as light reflects and refracts into our eyes and we sail our paper boats through canals in Amsterdam. All hail Queen Beatrix and many happy returns of the day! We ignore the awkward fact that today is really her mother’s birthday and now we exchange our robes of gaudy orange for black rags. The air is dry in Germany as we congregate on mountaintops and wave goodbye to the witches. As the clock strikes 12, we wipe our mouths and our hands are sticky with the remnants of the extinguished sun.
May is the boy with hands as fluid as water. May makes his way up rocket-shaped towers, trampling on pillows of Chinese buns the way he stomps on the hearts of female crushes. He collects these baked flour parcels, tossing them carelessly into the bamboo basket on his back. Eventually he emerges as the winner. The boy with liquid arms has collected enough good luck to last forever.
June has the persona of a stripper in Las Vegas. June resents authority and rebels against our “Textile World”. June marched last week in New York wearing nothing but rainbow colored lipsticks streaked across her chest. June is every mother’s nightmare and every father’s temptation. But when the nights are too hot and the air threatens to smother, June remembers how last year she pressed her heart into the palms of a boy whose hands were water. June is a shipwreck. She never recovered.
As an act of desperation, July frequently attends the Festival of the Redeemer to ask for redemption on behalf of her twin sister. July came 3 minutes after June, but she has always been her sister’s keeper. She laughs at the Hemmingway lookalikes and refuses to accept any offers of beer. Sometimes when July looks back and sees her sister in a heap, her heart beats louder than the slit drums of Heiva as she wonders what would happen if June found out that May had intentionally kissed her.
It is August and we are perched quietly on tombstones in Madagascar. We observe family members whisper ‘Good morning’ to ancestors as they gently peel open the blankets of straw and dance with the bones of great grandfathers and mothers. August smiles at the babies who have no idea they are playing with the finger bones of their makers. The sun descends like a giant lozenge into the throat of clouds as families spray perfume and sing ‘Goodbye goodbye’, returning the deceased to their beds down under.
September sings the songs of the southern right whales as the moon waxes over the region of Asia. September’s heart aches as people light candles at the steps of the World Trade Center. His sighs are so mournful that leaves quiver in sorrow and leap gracefully from tree branches to go forth to him with open arms of comfort.
October has eyes that shine like the oil-lamps in India. The smell of burning butter melts into the scent of pumpkin and brown sugar. The sweetness in the air shrouds the twiggy branches of naked trees with their clothes at their feet in stitches. October laughs at the procession of supermen and women striding on the brick pavement. When the streets are brimming with legends and heroes, October feels the rush of hope that the candle of the world will burn forever.
November mourns for the suicidal leaves, their dry brown bodies crisping under human feet. No one has organized the funerals of the many dead once living. November volunteers to pray during Thanksgiving. She breaks cinnamon bread at the table and offers the yeasty dough in the bowl of her hands, and thanks God for the family and his bountiful blessings. While she says this out loud, she secretly thanks God that at least when she dies, her fate will be the opposite of those uncared for leaves.
Finally December makes her great debut to the world. December brings the cold, providing people the perfect excuse to huddle together. The news reports that the trend of DIY heart surgery has reached an all-time high amongst the lovers. They prise their hearts from beating chests and exchange them with one another saying, “This is for you, for you and only for you.” The city is dotted with wreaths of mistletoe as carol singers kiss and sing solos only for each other. There is a surplus of Forgiveness at the shopping malls so friends, families and random strangers can freely purchase them as gifts, for one another.
This is the beginning of the end. This is the end of the beginning. The colors of the sun have made a full revolution around the yellow spectrum. We began with a breath of yellow, which darkened to a bright yolk and then back again. We began with a bright spark of excitement, then to sadness, and back to love and happiness again. These are the slices of months that complete the cake of a year. This is the chronological cycle of time together with feelings-a full circle that shall never end.
