The air was piquant with the spoor of culmination as December flipped into place in my almanac.
December however, besought to contrast. She discerned, of course, that the action of turning a page, of ending a chapter or of closing a book, did not end an anecdote. Having acknowledged that, she would also avow that exultant wind-ups were never grim to catch.
"It is simply a matter," she explained to January who hopped peevishly from one foot to another anticipating her turn in the tale of events, "of finding a sunny place in a garden, where the light is golden and the grass is soft; somewhere to rest, to stop racing, and to be at ease.
It was around the same spell that I bid adieu to ‘friend’ under a page of stars on a stony sundown by a bus stop which was beamed down by the glimmer of a street lamp sweltering peevishly , casting prowling glooms up and about. December had just turned the bend and gone on slumber, her crown under her wing. January soared high, effervescent with the verves of a new beginning. Full stops speckled the folio, keenly awaiting their locus in the book.. I curve my head towards friend, and padlock my discernments, expecting to sense the sleet of the ending that ‘full stop’ usually derives to sting me. Friend turned to me with a wan beam intuiting my dread for the ‘full stop’, and quietly began…
Friend said,” perceive this moment as a semi colon… because a semi colon pronounces there is no tangible ending. It’s just the place where you sojourn the story …
Chuckling off the nifty jigsaw of words with a nimble shove, friend got me on the awaiting carriage that would take me far away ;
And then I knew, as the hums of the carriage towed me further and further away until friend was a solitary speck in the dim ruddiness of the twilit dusk
… that this anecdote did not end here ;