January Tells You How it Is

Whether You Like it or Not

Incoming/Outgoing. 01.20.2025

You wake up on the sofa, with the TV on. The loud banging sound - was it a dream? Your foggy uncertainty lingers, then dominates. You close your eyes again.

But the ruckus continues. You aren’t dreaming. The knocking is rhythmic, incessant, and at times interspersed with the doorbell chime. Yes, this is happening. You look over at the motionless dog. You’re slightly irritated that the dog isn’t picking up on the situation, but then, you forgive him. One day, you too won’t be able to hear a thing.

You walk downstairs, toward the entry, glancing at the hall clock on the way. It’s exactly midnight. You wonder, “Who the…” to yourself as you open the door. On the edge of the threshold, she stands.

—Ah, Darlin, you don’t look happy to see me, she says. She doesn’t wait for your invitation. She walks past you and giggles her way into the foyer.

January. She’s here.

-Ah, what a journey! January says as she sets her suitcase down with a thud. You’re awake enough now to wonder how such spindly arms can lift luggage that large.

You shut the door behind her, and shiver; try to take hold of yourself. Pep-talk time: (‘Ok, you say to yourself, you had a better time with November and December than you thought you would, so maybe this too won’t be so bad.’) You turn to properly greet her, offer to take her coat.

—Sweetheart, did you just wake up? Your eyes look a little…saggy.

(This is going to be bad.)

She walks past you, toward the kitchen. —I’ll make us some coffee, Darlin’.

You don’t want coffee, but you’re not awake enough to say so.

—Your place looks wonderful, she says as she puts the second capsule in the Nespresso machine. I told you that larger rug size was the way to go. Now, just move that sofa back three inches and…perfection. Yes, Sugar?

“No sugar, please.”

—Yes, Sugar. I remember.

She hands you the unwanted coffee. Her thin arms are all muscle; the dark skin shining as if it were covered in early morning frost.

—Sweetheart, it is good to see you, she says. Her smile transforms her taut and finely boned face into a keyboard of white teeth.

Convention tells you, this is your cue to reciprocate, but you can’t bring yourself to say you’re glad to see January—out loud or internally. Also, isn’t it midnight? This coffee isn’t doing anything for you.

January sighs, unleashing a cool breeze that travels over the coffee table and lands on your bare neck. She takes another sip of her coffee, and looks away for a moment. She seems disappointed in you. Was this the plan? For her to arrive suddenly and with such a genuine enthusiasm for your reunion? If so, you’re not even remotely prepared. For any of it.

—Cher, listen—you don’t have to stay up. Go back to your dreams. We’ll catch up later.

You thank her, and slowly make your way up the stairs to your still warm bed where the dog has not moved. You hear him sleep-whimper as you turn off the light. All four of his paws are twitching. You remember when you were able to dream that way, as if everything were available to you once you made the move toward it…

* * *

You wake to a vista of saturated clouds. Their darkness crawls through the window like anxious ghosts. You need water. Why does the cold make you so thirsty? Downstairs, you expect to see January up and at it—she was so full of gusto the night before—but there’s no sign that she’s awake yet.

You check the entry. Her luggage isn’t there. You should have moved it to the guest room for her, but you didn’t have the capacity for graciousness last night.

You leave for work and leave her a note:

“Help yourself to anything. I’ll be home late. xo”

(Do you mean it? the x? the o? Well, it’s better than Warmly which would be a complete lie.)

The next few days you work extra hours, run errands both old and new, meet up with friends, many of which you’ve seen just recently. You make lists of things you need which require a ferry ride off the island. You go to bed early, taking with you thick books with long sentences. You sleep in as long as you can.

January is well aware of what you’re doing, of how you’re avoiding her. But she is here, and there’s no way to not run into her every so often. When you do, you find her laying down in the window seat, looking out towards the tips of the trees. One afternoon near the approach of dusk, you saw her there, covered in a blanket, looking through the binoculars, smiling.

—Yes, cher. Yes, she said, elongating both ‘S’s. But not to you. She was talking to whomever or whatever it was on the other side of the lens.

You wondered whether she was hallucinating. January is getting on in years. Yet her eagle eyes—still clear, still the deepest cobalt blue—haven’t seemed to diminished with age. Those food labels you can’t read? She can read them. From the other side of the kitchen. Her mind, too: sharp as cut glass. Nothing gets by her.

You avoid her, but then you can’t. And those times when you do converse, she doesn’t mince words. January tells you like it is, whether you like it or not. For example, her out-of-the-blue comment that maybe you’ve been parting your hair on the wrong side all these years; why not try it the other way? Or the look on her face when you read her the first draft of a new poem. On both occasions (and these are just the simple examples) you took offense, but after a few days spent re-considering your part and and your poem, you came to realize that January’s instincts were correct.

One night, you come home late and find January in the window seat again, covered in the faux fur blanket, sipping green tea.

—Sugar, come here. Sit down, she says.

(What have I done now?)

—I’ll be leaving soon, so I want to get this off my chest.

You sit down. This seems serious, but she doesn’t look angry. She looks serene, soft, like a blurry memory.

—I know what people think of me. I understand my effect. It used to hurt a little, you know. Walking into a room, and catching the glimpses of dread, of distaste. You do know that I recognize it. I see it inside you, right now. But I also see through it. I see through to its core, Sugar. You know what’s inside the core of this restlessness, this worry and doubt? Unplanted seeds. Seeds that want to become flowers. Fruit. I am like a mirror, Sugar. And your dislike of me, that harsh feeling of yours, that’s just a germ that hasn’t found its soil yet.

You shift a little in your chair.

—I am not here to harm you, Sweetheart. I am here to ask you what you want. What do you really want? What do you want to carry with you? What do you want to plant? What old dreams of yours did you forget in all this business, all this running around?

Your eyes wet a little.

—Oh, cher, don’t cry. This isn’t a lecture. I have more faith in you, in every one of you, than you even realize. But you’re going to have to try. Flowers aren’t born out of thin air, you know.

January stands up, folding the blanket into a perfect square, putting it back on the window seat cushion. She walks over, puts her long, thin fingers on either side of your face and kisses you on the forehead. Her lips are cool and hot all at the same time. She walks (floats?) down the hall and to the guest room.

* * *

You wake up the next day, and are a little surprise at yourself. For once, for the first time, you’re looking forward to seeing January, sharing a cup of coffee with her. But you soon realize that she has already gone.

As you make your first coffee, January’s words spin around in your head. Her encouragement, her belief in you is somehow more difficult to accept than her honest opinions, which you had always interpreted as a reprimand or thinly veiled insults. Now you can see that she was not criticizing you. She saw something in you that you yourself were not ready to look at; she saw the person that you yourself were not yet prepared to become.

You finish your coffee and take the dog for a walk. On the way, you pick up the mail. Back home, you rummage through the catalogs, offers for services and products you have no interest in, the new insurance policy, and a copper-colored envelope with your name written on it. You recognize January’s handwriting, the way she puts the extra swoop in the first letter of your name. You open it.

Until next year, cher.

Dream.
Plant.
Persevere.

I am rooting for you.
-J.

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Thank you for reading.

{| AC