Into the Morrow

The year grew old and tired. And so it was laid to rest with all the others in that overflowing mausoleum. Nay, no cenotaph for rusty bones, but a great hall wherein all visitors are accepted if even, like errant children, each season brings fewer to remember than the last.

The years do not cease being when they go to retire, but rather derive comfort from handing on their heavy burden. And each season as their admirers fade they are let once more to pursue their own chores and contemplations in humble solace.

And so too do we leave this year, the bearer of much misfortune, but let us not remember her in despair or anger but rather thank her for so delicate a service and for such unwavering fortitude in the seas of plaintive cries. For now another takes up the mantle to carry it a bit further and we must help where we can.