December. A hush falls. Over everything. The city, once a cacophony of car horns and jackhammer percussion, now muffled by the first snowfall. A pristine blanket, quickly pockmarked by dirty slush. The holidays, they tell us, are upon us. But are they?
I find myself, as I often do this time of year, staring out the window. Watching the skeletal trees sway in the wind. Their bare branches, like so many bony fingers, scratching at the slate sky. Searching for something. Anything. A flicker of warmth in the fading light.
It wasn't always like this. I remember Decembers past. The anticipation thick as eggnog. The thrill of a new cashmere scarf, the scent of pine needles and cinnamon clinging to it. The way the city, bathed in the warm glow of holiday lights, felt like a snow globe come to life.
Now? The lights seem garish. The carols, a tinny soundtrack to consumerist frenzy. The whole spectacle, a bit much. Like a sequin dress worn one too many times.
Don't get me wrong, I appreciate a well-placed bauble as much as the next person. And yes, there's a certain charm to watching bundled-up children marvel at window displays. But there's a melancholy that settles in this month. A sense of things ending. The light fading too soon. The year, a crumpled party dress tossed in the corner.
Perhaps it's the fashion. The endless parade of velvet and sequins, the pressure to sparkle and shine. It all feels a bit forced. Like trying to outrun the inevitable darkness. This year, I find myself drawn to the opposite. The quiet luxury of a well-worn sweater. The comfort of a worn-in pair of boots. The unassuming elegance of a simple black coat. Clothes that whisper, not shout.
Last week, I found myself wandering through a vintage shop. Tucked away on a quiet side street. The air thick with the scent of mothballs and forgotten memories. I ran my fingers over a rack of old fur coats. Their once-vibrant colors now faded to a muted whisper. A reminder that even the most opulent things eventually lose their luster.
But there's beauty in that too, isn't there? In the patina of time. The stories etched into the wrinkles and scars. The quiet dignity of aging gracefully.
Maybe that's what December is really about. A time for reflection. For taking stock of the year gone by. For embracing the quiet moments. The long, dark evenings. The chance to hibernate, to recharge, to emerge in the new year, not shiny and new, but weathered and wise.
There's a certain freedom in that, I think. In letting go of the need to sparkle. In embracing the shadows. In finding beauty in the unexpected. Even in December.
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