I’ve been dreading the end of 2023, because 2023 was the last year that held some of my sister’s joy. I’ve fruitlessly imagined ways to freeze time or turn it back or defy reality and physics to undo something impossible to undo. And now, as I write, there are approximately 14 hours until the year that will be on documents and timestamps and anything else dated will numerically separate me more from her.
I hate it.
I haven’t been able to figure out how to succinctly explain why. Recently, I settled on the notion that passing from 2023 to 2024 feels like passing through a metaphorical doorway of some kind. And I think part of me is afraid that with this doorway comes the risk of losing her more. When I was still in undergraduate psychology, I remember learning about the “doorway effect.” When we pass through literal doorways into new spaces, we’re apparently more prone to forget memories from the past space. Because they’re less likely to be relevant. Less tied to your current reality.
I can’t handle that idea.
If I could sit in the 2023 room for longer, I would. I don’t know how long it would take me to feel ready to walk out of it, but I know that today isn’t that day. Except I don’t have the ability to slow time or ask it to let me off the ride—just for a while.
I’ve unwillingly already stepped across many thresholds this year. Since May 20, 2023 I’ve entered many rooms that I never wanted to. Something about this one, though, this change of scenery that will be surrounded with celebration around the world, it hurts differently. I haven’t decided where I will be or what I will do for this New Year’s Eve. In some ways, it doesn’t matter to me at all. At the same time, it feels like it matters the most.
Unmoored Sister 