My wishes for you

Dear reader,

This year,

I wish for you, a mountain.

I wish for you, a bird.

I wish for you a tuft of thread on a sunny road.

Dear reader, I have not met you, well, not all of you, but by sharing these words we have shared, shall we say, an unholy communion? Whenever you read past the first paragraph, and decided you will read through the rest, our eyes met, and we held each others’ gaze for a moment longer than what the modest laws of infinite scroll dictated. When you finished a letter and it lingered with you, our arms brushed as we stood up to leave, with no promises or pageantry. Your screen changed, and so did mine.

And so, dear reader, as the year sighs to a close, let me tell you, what I wish for you. Read these words as you would a whisper in a crowded bus. I wanted the window seat, so that I could prattle about all that I saw and heard, and you indulge me, as you have, so many times, over this year.

I wish for you, a mountain.

A year like a mountain that moves you every time you behold it. A mountain that knows of a time before clocks. A mountain who hugs you right back, for you are never too far from that unwavering gaze.

I wish for you, a bird.

A year where friends visit you like a bird, uninvited, unscheduled, and interrupt that very important project that you just have to finish. A bird that blithely chirps and cheers, and as you pause for all of two point three minutes lingering on the doorstep, watching them chatter, as you smile back at their banter, without having to respond, without having to say anything. You go back to that very important project, the creases on your forehead not fully ironed away, but smoothened, just a little.

I wish for you a clutch of read thread on a road.

A year where as you walked on a road with that friend whose big eyes glowered with tears unshed, you knew that however big your hugs were, they could never encircle all that grief. As you walked on a road with that friend you would hold her hand and kiss, a gesture as practised as the one never learned. As you walked on a road with that friend, you would vow to walk those roads again and feel the gentle December breeze on your faces, again, and again. As you walked on a road with that friend, you would spot a tuft of red thread, and stop and pause, and when you look up, she has walked ahead, and you know she will walk ahead, and the road will go on.