This week is a no-mans-land. The days between Christmas and January first seem less important, less weighty, than other weekdays. The emphasis on the bookend holidays seems to make the days between them a slippery slope down which we slide toward the new year.
My inclination is to write the coming year on this year's last few checks. I have to stop myself from doing that this week. It seems that time is englobing us like an amoeba ingesting a mote of food.
A soft pop, some fireworks, and there we are: eligible for another birthday . . .