Prescriptive glasses

Just before the clock strikes midnight on New Year's Eve, I raise my glass to the television screen and say a silent prayer. 

Familiar words fall into place as they reluctantly release from my dusty memory and slide through inaudible whispers under my breath. 

"Our Father who art in heaven ... Hail Mary, full of grace ... Hallowed be thy names."

It's been a while. 

I know the passages don't belong together, but their lofty sounds have the same effect on me as releasing a deep breath or knocking on wood. 

A momentary solace courtesy of superstition and parochial school. 

I make the sign of the cross and drain my glass of its effervescent contents. I thumb through a notebook I started keeping in March. 

The pad is filled with doodles that don't make much sense. They begin In the center of the page with the date and they feather out to each edge like a meandering, fine-line tattoo.

It looks like atonal music sounds. 

A cute and fuzzy bunny with razor-sharp teeth and a doctor's bag sits frozen in a portrait-style pose. The entire scene is encased in an ornate frame. A nameplate says, Alvarez.

I don't remember drawing this. Nor do I remember the squiggly boy on the next page, who has a thick mop of thatch-stroked hair and a contour-lined mask stretched over his face.

The upside being I didn't have to draw the features I tend to struggle with: noses pointed at awkward angles and mouths that look like mistakes. 

Honestly, I don't know what to hope for as 2020 moves into hindsight. Surely it won't soon be forgotten. 

Every year offers up the double edge of hope and hardship. It often seems as if the most skilled are the only ones capable of slicing the cork and partaking in something sparkling and drinkable. 

If we're lucky our glasses will be perpetually half full. If we are lucky we will enjoy every ounce we are afforded. Even if it tastes bitter.

The horrors we suffered may be as indelible as the blessings bestowed, which, if we are being honest, we have individually accounted for with Scrooge-like scrutiny. 

The list,  an inverted Christmas tree, balanced on the thinnest point. 

We tell ourselves we have to move forward because time doesn't have Hollywood's brand of special effects. But the only thing we can do for the time being is to stand here, and try to keep our trees from toppling.

This season ... like the last season and the one before that ... will come to an end. 

Some of our prayers will be answered, though not necessarily to our liking. Some of our wishes will be granted with a similar effect. 

Still, for one night only, we'll put on our 2021 bedazzled spectacles (they're prescription so long as you count self-medicating with impulse purchases at the self-checkout kiosk of a local commercial pharmacy). 

In another year's time will refill our glasses (and our prescription for dated spectacles) when we celebrate again.