Like all beginnings, it held hope in a tight fist: This is the year you’ll do that thing. So I say goodbye to the plants we couldn’t keep alive, each dried up promise to do the dishes, take out the garbage, sweep the dust and hair. My hair is leaving me by the hundreds each day. It’s not me; it’s science. We lose almost enough hair each year to make a full wig. I am lucky my biggest inconvenience is my hair growing scientifically weary of me. I tell myself it is just another day to pet my dog, wake up next to the one I love. A new day to reconvene with my body, finally have time to say good morning to every unseen speck of dust. I wind my watch. It has seen sixty-three New Years. Which is to say it knows every minute for what it is: A kindness.