Last week I told myself to write about how the idea of a year is so arbitrary, simply a construct of our need to use language to define and compartmentalize the reality that we fear.

But it’s not a construct. Years are real, and they contain meaning.

A year means we have returned
The centripetal force of the great bright ball
Has flung us back to where we once were
Sure, we are always where we once were,
But in some of those places we raise an Ebenezer
A monument to remember
The events that changed us
That mark before and after
When we were whole, then made incomplete
By forces beyond us
Yet right at our fingertips

But more than just a pointing from
This place is pointing to
The day where there is no return
For then we will all be truly here
The loss will be filled with a discovery
We will find where he went
And the reasons behind all laughter and tears
We will speak in songs
Days, minutes, years will have no meaning
Loss will be lost
"The End" will finally end