I wouldn't choose a year like this, but that doesn't mean that I am ready to give up on it. The death of a father is a quotidian event in the scheme of things: it happens to everybody. But it only happens once, and I wasn't ready. Mostly I guess I'm not ready to give up on this year as it is like a toxic spill has burst and flooded on the currents, and I would just like to contain it, and visualise a new year that might contain some form of happiness, but I'm not ready for that either.
The police banged on the door this morning around 5:30 to let me know they had recovered my car, lost some months ago. I have to get plates and pay towing charges before I can pick it up, then I will have an uninsured, unregistered, unwarranted old vehicle that may well be a wreck (I don't know yet). That is timely closure of an incident I was happy to forget. I really don't want the vehicle back: it's just another irrelevance.
My mind is far away, a flat end, an unpromising beginning. My mouth tastes like metal.