You’re standing on the porch in the freezing cold, so far out into the country that you can see the stars again. You’re standing out there as he opens a bottle of champagne with a knife, cracking the top of the bottle right off. And their neighbors come out in the dark banging pots and pans and shouting, Happy New Year, Happy New Year.

You hate resolutions. This year was the first year you kept one, the first year of your entire life when it actually worked, so you don’t think much of their power. There were magnificent things that happened this year: new friends, especially here. Moments of hope for your country and your family, so pure that you remembered why you once believed in God. There were crushing disappointments, losses, death.

You don’t know what to resolve for yourself for the coming year. You look at the people beside you, people you’ve managed by some miracle not to lose despite neglect, despite moves across the country and trials you knew nothing about, people who still remind you of why you do what you do, why you want what you want. People hugging you and clinking glasses, toasting the year gone by, as the wine bubbles up over the top of the broken bottle and splashes onto the lawn.

You don’t know what you want from the coming year, except: More of this, shouting happily about absolutely nothing in the cold cold night.

A.