As the year closes, I think of its unseemly demises. With simple time, it carried away so much. Memories, people. I’ll never forget that peculiar feeling I had walking along the train tracks in Tartu on the day it was over. Abielu katki. It was high May, California weather, sun that lingered, warmth sumptuous and succulent and erotic, the trees like Dr. Seuss would have sketched and colored them, except greener and more pungent, luscious and octopus, enveloping you up in like her red-gold locks. As I eased into single-hood, the temptation to be a bastard ever strong, I clung to ideas of her natural boughs because of what they represented to me — the last vestiges of the soul, the last morsels of the self. Now the year ends and I am not even halfway toward her, not even a quarter of the way there, or a sixteenth. “You need more time, you need more time.” Watch me scratch the rocky bottom of the tunnel, trying to move toward something that I’m convinced must be light. Sometimes. More time, it all takes time … The ghost of one love gone, and another arrives to take her place. Vulnerability. Deep as death. Not nearly enough time, she tells me. This is how it goes and goes. It’s not exactly easy, all this. But what other choice do I really have? If you see light, you must move toward it, correct? Candle light flickers over dinners and there it is again, a well-contained thrill. Someday, someday. The one, the one.