In these last few hours of 2011, it’s time to build my Año Viejo.
I remember the dancing when I was little. Bands set up on corners throughout the city, neighbors and strangers coming together with a common sense of excitement, of change.
Concession stands sold every kind of treat. Children dressed as “widows” of the Año Viejo (old year) ran through the streets asking grown-ups for a coin to help them through the year. If the adult refused, the “widow” might hit them with her sock full of sand. When I was five, my friend Ruby and I wanted to join in this version of “trick or treat”. We snuck out and went to the market by ourselves to buy a mask. Turned out, we only had enough money for one mask. Unable to decide whether to share the mask or cut it in half, we spent the money instead on hard candy which we promptly had to hide from our parents who were unaware of our illicit excursion.
I remember the Años Viejos, those effigies of people or events that define the outgoing year. Sorrows, loss, crises, joys: representations of the Year and all it brought were staged on little palm-fringed stands along the city streets.
Tonight, I remember and sketch my own image of 2011.
First, a figure of Death standing in a big empty spot, like the one left by my brother-in-law who passed away in March.
Next, Age and its conflict of emotions. Mom resting her head on my shoulder as I used to do on hers. Dad quietly leaving me to work during my visit, unwittingly an echo of my childhood self watching patiently at the study door while he worked. Son moving home again; parents and children, tracing the continuity of life.
Instead of palm fronds, I lace my stage with travel. Journeys to reconnect and introduce my children to my other home. The long drive north with my parents to their retirement home, the short flight back alone. The chance to discover a new city with old friends.
Frustrations, accomplishments, little joys and big, times I let myself down and times I disappointed others, laughter – oh, so much laughter! It’s all laid out across the floor.
I remember the stroke of midnight, the fireworks and the Años Viejos pulled down and set on fire. The past crumbled into ashes as we watched. Memory-laden smoke rose, whispering through the night. The crowds erupted into cheers. The Year is dead. Long Live the Year.
On the stroke of midnight my paper Año Viejo curls into ashes. The candle smoke carries memories on the night wind and with a prayer and a sense of excitement and change, I will let go.
Long live 2012!
